


Those Who Fall Down The Rabbit Hole

by Jae201



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Hannibal (TV), The Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Comfort?, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, Happy Murder Family, I need god in my life, I swear I won't go hard on the angst, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Psychopaths In Love, Romance, Slow Burn, There's A Tag For That, We live in a society, did I say slow burn already?, im a sucker for kid fics so expect an extra, ima say it again, just in case, lol, no people eating, not too bad tho, sanity is subjective honestly, semi-dark Bruce, semi-sane Joker, so be appeased, some Hannibal tropes, time skip, until Bruce gets his head out of his ass, viva la homo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 03:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jae201/pseuds/Jae201
Summary: “Then why do you want to kill me?”The high pitch laugh that bounces off the walls is hysterical. After a moment, the Joker laughs so hard he sounds like he's sobbing.His bat might look good in that suit, but he isn’t as bright as the Joker thought he would be. To say… to suggest…Jesus, he’s hilarious.“Kill you? I don’t wanna kill you. What would I do without you? Go back to ripping off mob dealers? No. No. No. No”DesignsDark, bottomless eyes.“You complete me”Who was he before Batman?He doesn’t remember.He doesn’t care.He is whole.He looks at Batman, and blue eyes meet black. God, black eyes. So dark he’s drowning.Perfect symmetry.***A re-write of The Dark Knight where the Joker is a serial killer, and Bruce is just a little fucked up in the head. But this is a romance, of course.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is cliche, but this is my first fic. So I'm in your care, Sempais. 
> 
> God, that was cringe.
> 
> Another cliche, English is not my first language. But I've been speaking it for a while, so that's just an excuse for any weird sounding sentences and misspellings y'all will find. (Coz it's not like I can write in Spanish anyway) Lmao I'm the personification of bilingual incompetence. 
> 
> No Beta on this yo, don't know how to get one of those. I wonder if they're even real, they sound too good to be true. 
> 
> What else? Oh, the references. So yah, there's gonna be a lot of references. I'll be giving y'all the name of whatever poem or whatever later on. Coz, as y'all will see, I did my research for this. That's how dry my life is, doing research for a fic just so that the future porn I'll write on it will have something to fall back on. A sad attempt of mine to rectify myself in the eyes of the lord. I'm putting effort into this Jesus! It's not only gay porn! I swear.
> 
> With that said, let us begin.

"_Do not blame god for having created the tiger, thank him for not having given it wings_"

— Ethiopian Proverb

He feels sweat prickle down his skin beneath the cowl. But he keeps punching, the man at the receiving end of the attack going limb on Bruce's grip from the continuous impact on his bloody face. He's unconscious, Bruce realizes, but his actions don't cease at the realization. It had been a dry night, tonight was. With Batman keeping the criminals at bay, thugs were temporarily off the streets— which was the whole point of all of _this_ in the first place, he reminds himself. Bruce had started all of this, this masked vigilante thing, so that he could decrease the number of criminals terrorizing the city; his city. And, sure enough, it was working. Thugs feared the dreaded bat running around at night, which, in other circumstances, would've been an utterly absurd concept— except it was working.

And together with people like Harvey Dent—who seemed to have good intentions— and Rachel Dawes —who was fighting crime in her own way— the city became quieter, the streets safer.

It was good.

It should be good.

Except that it wasn't. The lack of action had made Bruce jittery, anxious. His hands were longing for something to grab, to bring into justice, to _right. _It had been days since he had an actual fight, and the absence of conflict was getting to him.

Who was he without it?

The random thought entered his mind, and before he could dwell on it, he spot it.

_Finally_

A hard-ass-wanna-be cornered a girl in an alley. From the roof he was watching the confrontation happen, Batman didn't think twice before sweeping in. At a chance of escape, the girl had fled, and the only thing the thug had done was take out a flip blade with a shaky hand before a tall, black figure smacked it away and went at him.

It was too similar. Way too similar. And Bruce was loaded with energy and anger he didn't know he had. As his fist met the mugger's almost disfigured face once more, he wasn't only beating this particular person. He was beating all of them. He was beating the piece of trash that'd had his finger on the trigger, the one that had left the bodies on the cold floor.

He was beating himself.

He heard himself laugh, a particularly heavy punch was followed by a _crack _and he made his body stop. It might've been the guy's nose, it might've not. Breathing heavily, he lets go of the mugger's shirt, the body harshly falling to the ground. Bruce pants as he takes his time examining the man. He should be disgusted, with the sight that meets his eyes and with himself for allowing his rage to get ahead of him. But he's not. He's glad, that the man's face is unrecognizable, that as long as he's out cold he won't have the chance of hurting any more people. And as violent as that thought may be, Bruce is okay with it. Because trash like that isn't worthy of being recognized to begin with.

Within his erratic breathing, and adrenalin high, a distinct streak of blood catches his attention. The man lies on the concrete unconscious, and Bruce ignores all of the injuries he inflicted on him in favor of a line of blood emanation from the man's hair matted head. The sleek red liquid almost resembles the stroke of a brush, as it undulates from the man's forehead to his eyebrow. It continues all the way to his closed, already plump, eye.

_It doesn't look right_, Bruce thinks in his weird daze— every trail has a destination, every stroke has a _point_. He thinks of last year, when he'd gone to Oregon for some kind of business meeting and somewhere along the line he'd seen [Thor's Well](https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/thor-s-well) . The hole in the pacific ocean had seemed almost sacred, the way it swallowed the water that never drained. That was a more appropriate image.

Bruce has a small knife in his utility belt. He could use it. Dig the guy's eye out.

It would look better.

Bruce stops, his breathing coming to a momentary halt. He rapidly shakes his head, already heading out of the secluded alley. As he passes over the unconscious man's body, he kicks one of his arms out of the way. He's just tired, that's all. He needs to sleep, he just needs to sleep.

He repeats this in his head as he heads out into the night, letting it drown those unwanted, random thoughts.

"Sir, as much as I support your nightly activities, I do not appreciate you coming home like this," Alfred says, having briefly looked over his shoulder at Bruce before getting back to whatever he was doing over the kitchen counter. Alfred was always awake by four in the morning, so Bruce was used to see him go about the mansion whenever he came back from his night patrols. What he hadn't been expecting was to find Alfred _cooking_ something at four in the morning. Bruce had just come to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Bruce stands by the doorway, watching Alfred work on whatever food he was preparing. Who Alfred's intending to feed at this time Bruce doesn't know, because he will not be eating so early in the day. But he stands there, watching Alfred do whatever Alfred does. It always calmed him.

"I didn't get hurt today," Bruce points out.

The older man doesn't turn as he continues to chop something. It's garlic, Bruce notices.

"What do you call those knuckles then? Surely someone who's invested so much on a crime-fighting suit would think of investing on some protective gloves." Of course, Alfred knows Bruce has those. But he hadn't used them, in fact, Bruce had taken them off just before beating the mugger. Why had he done that? His eyes wonder to his knuckles, they're pink and raw. Not too bad, but evidently avoidable. They sting, he realizes.

"I forgot them," the millionaire dismisses. Alfred only nods.

"Surely, sir"

Not wanting to continue the conversation, for reasons he can't fathom, the millionaire pushes off the doorframe he'd been leaning on and makes to leave. Not getting the cup of water he'd gone to the kitchen for. He hears the _thump_, _thump_ of a knife meeting wood stop, and Alfred's voice stops him on his way.

"Have you seen the news, master Bruce?"

Bruce turns around, tired and just a little bit confused, "What news?"

The man picks up the controller of the TV Bruce had installed in the kitchen and turns it on, immediately, the morning news come on.

"-the only evidence being the Joker card left on the scenes, and some eye-witness testimonies, we cannot be sure who exactly is this criminal terrorizing Gotham. However, the twelfth victim found within a year and the only thing the CGPD can tell us is the obvious: there's a serial killer on the loose."

The screen goes dark.

"Those news," Alfred vocalizes. "I thought by now you would've done something about it, sir. I am sure the mob issue can wait until this more immediate threat is dealt with."

Alfred's gaze is piercing, and Bruce avoids it by placating his own on the counter behind the butler, "Gordon doesn't want me to get involved just yet. He says if Batman solves this too, it would look bad on the department. People will stop trusting them. He...asked me to give them some time."

"And since when do you listen to anyone?"

What a good question that is. Bruce turns around and heads to his room, already needing his soft bed. Really, today wasn't one of his best days. Everything was becoming so... incredibly confusing.

"I trust Gordon, Alfred"

| x |

He's a simple man, really. Get him an AR-15 and he'll be forever content. Though the same can't be said for everyone else— anyone else that crosses his path, that is. But regardless, that's not the point. The point is that he's a simple man. And as simple men do, he has simple likes and dislikes.

One of such is, well, non-sense. That's the simple way to put it.

He doesn't believe in non-sense, everything has sense if you look deep enough. But it doesn't. Because nothing has sense, kinda funny. No, that's really funny. So, non-sense. He doesn't believe in many things, but he believes in non-sense. And he likes it, but he doesn't. He hates it. Loathes it.

Just as much and he hates money. God, does he hate the thing.

It makes no sense.

It's so, so valuable. It's as valuable as they allow it to be, as they want it to be, and it still controls them. It controls the people that have control over it. And they call _him_ crazy. It's almost funny. Almost.

So, why is he robbing a bank when he doesn't like that kind of non-sense?

It's his grand debut, duh. It is about time he comes out of the shadows, the masses deserve to know him!

It's been more than a year, after all.

And, of course, he needs to control his goons. Fear only does so much. Money does it better. He did kill all the henchclowns he involved in his little charade, though. No, he made them kill each other. Aah, it's a good day. Such a good day.

Have you heard of yellow woods? He thinks he's heard of them.

Roads. Roads and travelers. Because it was grassy and wanted wear. Two roads.

Two roads diverge in a yellow wood.

He doesn't realize he's mumbling to himself until the man he shot earlier stirs on the floor.

"Think you're smart, uh?"

Ugh, he isn't dead. He thought he shot him dead. He shrugs, who cares, he likes those better, the ones that are harder to kill. They're so much more fun. He hadn't been expecting that one though— a bank manager with a riffle. Nice surprise. He shouldn't have underestimated the guys he was dealing with. Well, he wasn't _dealing_ with them per se, stealing from them would be more accurate. He finishes loading the last bag in the back of the bus and turns to the wounded man on the floor.

Yellow, and grassy, and black.

No steps had trodden black. Because it wanted wear.

"Criminals in this town used to believe in things. Honor, respect."

He gets closer to the mob member pushing the pathetic speech out of his lips. He smiles underneath the mask. Oh, how charming. A dead man trying to make a point even when he knows he's going to die. Or is it because he _knows_ he's already dead? Pity, there's no time to find out. He strides closer towards the wounded. How fun it would be to just _play_ a little bit.

But there's no time.

Two roads. Somewhere ages and ages hence.

"Look at you. What do you believe in? What do you believe in?!"

The masked figure kneels in front of the shouter. Ow, his ear, his ear. There's no need to be so loud. He grabs the tough bank manager by the hair and makes him look at him, oh he's afraid. He's so afraid. The attacker takes something out of his jacket before shoving the grenade into the manager's mouth. "I believe—" he says.

Two roads. Two roads diverge in a wood, and I

"I believe that whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you..." With one hand, he slips off his mask, smiling a broad scarred smile. Oh, now the man isn't afraid, he's terrified. The smile stretches even more.

"Stranger."

Doubt, worn, difference. I doubted if I should ever come back

Leaving a wide eyed manager with a waiting grenade in his mouth, the Joker boards the stuffed school bus and drives out of the bank. The yellow vehicle easily submerging itself in a passing line of identical ones just outside of the building. When the bomb explodes, Joker is still smiling. Explosions, explosions are nice. Ah, today is a good day.

Because that is all the difference.

| x |

"I told you, we can do this on our own. Now we've got it easier, we've got a face," says James Gordon, pacing back and forth. The picture of a white faced, green haired clown lays on the table, and the room in the Major Crimes Unit remains empty except for the masked vigilante and the Lieutenant.

Batman pretends to glare, as if in disagreement with what Gordon is saying. He should not agree with the Lieutenant's decision, he should just go and get this guy off the streets. But he doesn't. Instead, Bruce is here, hiding behind the face he calls Batman, a face he created to protect those who need protection, just to fake rebellion because he knows rebellion would be the right thing to do.

_And since when do you listen to anyone?_

The other morning, after his enlightening conversation with Alfred, Bruce had woken up to garlic bread and a glass of milk on his nightstand. Instantly, he had felt shame. Bruce knew, as well as Alfred, that he had been running. For some reason or the other, Bruce had been evading facing this threat that was the _Joker _for an entire year. And Bruce knew, and Alfred knew. And, for god's sake, Bruce didn't know _why, _but he was.

He wasn't scared of the clown. The psycho was a criminal, a murderer, a serial killer, Bruce ate those for dinner. And he didn't agree with his actions, that wasn't even a question. So why had Bruce evaded confronting him for so long? Every time the question came to his mind, he pushed it aside. Dismissing it and trying to convince himself he was just too busy, or that the police would catch him eventually. But, when earlier today the press had gone berserk with the robbery of Gotham's National Bank, Bruce had given in to his sense of guilt and made himself demand Gordon to let him catch the Joker. As the man had been wanting Batman to leave the issue for the GCPD to take care of since the murders started. So, now Batman's here, although he doesn't really want to be. Although he doesn't need Gordon's permission if he really wanted to catch a criminal.

Christ, what was wrong with him lately?

"And besides, you're busy with the issue of your little replicas going around. Not to mention the fact that people don't know the faceless murderer who's been terrorizing the city for the past year is the same guy who robbed the bank today," Gordon holds up a small plastic bag containing a joker card between his fingers, "so there won't be_ too_ much panic."

Gordon was withholding information from the public, then. Batman inwardly sighs, but continues to fix the Lieutenant with a glare. "Six hostages died from the explosion, Gordon. Seven were injured, four men were killed by gunshot. How many more people will die before your team catches him? I have to stop him."

The other sighs, putting the clear bag next to the picture from the camera footage on the table, "Just trust us on this one, would you? It is tragic, yes. But this is just what we needed to get tails on him." Gordon looks up at him, almost daringly. "One man or the entire mob? Help us with the former and we'll take care completely of the latter. Please let this department do its job, Batman."

Those two sentences are completely contradictory, but Bruce pretends they're not. He should keep pushing, he knows.

He nods, "Fine, but I'll step in immediately if things get out of hand." Like people getting gruesomely murdered and displayed, and the robbing of a bank, isn't out of hand at all. Gordon seems more than satisfied by Bruce's answer though. The Lieutenant claps his hands together, smiling briefly.

"Great! Now that's settled with, here," he digs in the pocket of his jacket and throws a stack of money at the vigilante. The man's sharp reflexes react appropriately and he swiftly catches the money. Without thinking twice, Bruce takes out a small device and scans the bills.

"Some of them are bills I gave you," Batman muses, the small metal scanner making strange noises.

"My detectives have been making drug buys with them for weeks. We've found a bulk of their dirty cash," Gordon informs him. Now, this is what he wanted Batman for, and, happily enough, this was something Bruce was more than willing to do. Drug dealers? The mob? You don't have to ask him twice. Now he was on safe territory.

"Time to move in," he says, adrenalin bordering on relief coursing through his veins.

"I'd have to hit several banks simultaneously— SWAT teams, back up," Gordon thinks out loud as he gathers all the items on the table and puts them in a paper bag. He doesn't notice the black figure's smile as he lists the challenges of their mission.

Oh yes, this was good. This Batman could do.

| x |

_He can't see. He can't see anything. Everything's dark, and cold, and dark. He wants to stop and rest, he wants to stop and sleep. But he can't. He has to find them, he knows something bad's going to happen if he doesn't._

_"Dad?" He shouts. There's an echo that repeats his words, but no one answers. _

_"Mom?" _

_Nothing. _

_The boy keeps aimlessly walking. His parents, he needs to find his parents. He needs to find them before..._

_Before what?_

_A figure emerges from the shadows._

_"Dad?" The boy asks, unsure but immensely hopeful. Everything's fine— his dad's here, so everything's fine. "Dad, is that you? I-I couldn't find you an-and-"_

_As the figure comes closer, the child freezes. His blood runs cold as he realizes— as he knows— that that is what. That is why he needed to find them, before this, before..._

_The strange man takes out a gun from his jacket. It's shiny, the child notices, almost like a jewel. The figure points the gun towards the boy, towards something next to him._

_No._

_But he knows._

_Move._

_BAM!_

_The body of someone who wasn't there collapses next to him. And the boy's feet are still stuck to the ground, and his eyes are still wide open, and his arms are still uselessly hanging on his sides, as he knows what will happen next. _

_He knew._

_The man points the gun at something, someone, on his other side. The same deafening sound rings in the boy's ears, but he's not hearing it. In the fog of black, white pearls rain. Dots of white. Splashes of white within black. He's looking at them fall in slow motion, he's looking up at them because he doesn't want to look down. He's looking up at them because he knows he can't move. He didn't move._

_He hadn't moved. _

_Why don't you move!_

_"Stay," a soothing voice says. "And tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord?"_

_A strangled groan catches the trembling child's attention away from the falling stars._

_"Bruce"_

_The infant finally looks down. Ha, he's dying. The man's dying. The man on the floor is his father. His father's dying and Bruce can't move. _

_"It's okay, don't be afraid," his father whispers, as blood drips down his lips. His father whispers, as he looks at the boy straight in the eye and shows him the very reason he should be._

_Bruce, why do we fall?_

_To... _

_"Enlarge his kingdom," the soothing voice says again._

_The boy's feet are still stuck in place as he hears the flap of wings coming his way. A thousand, a million wings are coming his way. Shrieks and wings and black are going to engulf him. He tries to run, but his feet are still stuck to the ground, so he falls. He falls on top of his dead mother._

_"Is that the reason he tempts us thus?" _

_So we can learn to pick ourselves up._

_Bruce screams, as he's enveloped by wings. As his voice is disappears among the screeches of beasts. As he becomes invisible and dissipates._

_"Solamen miseries socios habuisse doloris"_

Bruce wakes up with a jolt, frantically looking around. His breathing is erratic, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Nothing.

The spacious room is silent, the light coming from the lamp giving it a dim glow. But there's nothing, only the echo of screams still vivid in Bruce's ear.

He thought it had stopped.

The electric clock on his nightstand says 4:16 am. Bruce ignores how hard he's trembling, and the sting on the side of his arm, and pushes to his naked feet and stands on the cold floor.

A shower is only proper.

| x |

Once under the spray of cold water, Bruce notices the cut he'd gotten while fighting Chenchen and his gangsters had re-opened— probably when he had been tossing and turning on his bed. Cursing the stupidity of his impersonators for trying and take on _gang members_, for crying out loud, he evades the hallways of the mansion where Alfred might be and sneaks into the bat cave. That's where he keeps the first aid kit.

He tries to patch himself back up. And he does. It is an incredibly shitty job. This is Alfred's area of expertise, amongst many. But he can't call Alfred now, they're in some weird kind of territory— with Bruce not wanting to take on Joker, and Alfred making him feel like shit with just the raise of an eyebrow.

_And since when have you listened to anyone?_

Bruce sighs, eying the computer screen in front of him for what must be the trillionth time since he came down to the cave. He has access to all police files, all not technically legal and all thanks to Lucious.

Bruce Wayne is not a coward.

He sighs again. He takes the mouse and types something on the computer. It isn't the thought that he's not a coward which prompts him to do it, but Alfred's questioning eyes. And more than Alfred's questioning eyes, it is the phrase his conscious mind has already forgotten.

He does it because of the deep feeling that if he doesn't, he'll be just like them. Whoever _them _is.

He presses enter.

In front of him, dozens of pictures pop up. The news hadn't shown them to the public, for good reason. Bruce is aware newspapers had given detail descriptions of the murders, but he never paid attention. He'd made himself not pay attention for the entire year they happened.

But here he is, looking at them on his own.

The Joker's twelve gruesome murders are wide on display. Uncensored and opened for Bruce to see. Proper first reactions are forgotten as Bruce's attention focuses only on the mangled bodies in front of him.

Every one of the victims are different— different ages, genders, races. But the sight is the same. An open cavity on the left side of their chest, faces robed of their skin down to their necks, and the most attention catching piece of it all— a fresh heart resting on the victim's skinned face.

Bruce stares at them for a good solid five minutes before he comes back to himself.

That night he can't go back to sleep.

| x |

No, no, no, no. Argh!

They don't get it!

It's been a week, an entire week, and they haven't made the link. How hard can it be? He left his card on the scenes and outside of the bank. It's self explanatory!

But no, the news haven't mentioned anything about the card on the bank robbery, meaning it wasn't found or the police is withholding it from the public. The police doesn't want them to know the Joker is the murderer _and_ the one who robbed the bank.

Joker should've thought about this better, now his debut was all for nothing.

Joker shoots another one of his henchmen as the trembling goon tries to tell him something. They should know better than to bother him when he's in one of his moods.

He swings around the gun between his fingers as he stares at the yellow should-be-white wall in front. He should've made another one of his signature kills out of that manager, then they wouldn't be able to ignore the fact that it was him who did both; the serial killing and the incredible money borrowing.

But twelve is such a good number, it would've been a waste to fuck it up by killing a thirteenth. And besides, he thought they would get it by now. He didn't think he would have to do it so many times.

But they didn't get it. So he had to do it again. And again. And again.

And they still don't get it!

Not like Joker knows what he wants them to get. But still, they don't get it. He knows they don't get it, although he doesn't know what that _it_ is.

But back to the previous issue. He's going to have to change his course of action, as his debut has failed. He's going to have to make himself known through other means, and he might have to fuck up his perfect number in the process.

| x |

The Bat Man. Greatly talked about, but Joker had been too busy to really care. The man hadn't catched him, so how great can he be?

Rumor says he's been running around Gotham for two years now, which would explain why the clown hadn't heard of the bat's appearance. He wasn't around at the time.

But despite the vigilante's lack of talent to catch the Joker, other criminals are terrified of him. Which benefits the Joker. A little bird told him the bat is messing with the mob lately and they want him gone.

Good for them, Joker is a great exterminator.

It's a beautiful plan, really. Get rid of the big scary bat for them, get the recognition he deserves in the process, and have a little fun along the way.

So he offered the criminals his help, at a price of course, even showed the men a magic trick.

They hadn't liked the trick. The pencil did disappear! Through the guy's eye socket, but it still did. God, no one appreciated good magic nowadays.

He had to cut some of them pretty badly. Mostly the one who'd called him a freak, boy did Joker enjoy making him one.

Upon their rejection to Joker's offer, he decided he could just mess with the bat himself. He didn't need to do it for those guys, he would do it for himself. And once he killed the Bat Man, the figure's fame would be enough to give him recognition.

It was perfect.

"Strap him up boys, and leave the rest to me"

| x |

"Remind me again Alfred, why am I doing this?" Bruce asks as he fixes the cuff of his white dress shirt. Alfred holds his folded, blue blazer jacket on one hand, an amused smirk playing at his lips.

"Because you talked to Mister Dent and decided he was a good guy," Alfred reminds him. "And you intend to impress Miss Dawes by throwing him this fundraiser, sir."

Bruce looks up at the older man. He knew too much for his own good.

"I don't intend to _impress_ her," he put emphasis on the word. "He just happens to be her _boyfriend_, who seems to have good intentions. That is all, no impressing happening here."

Alfred smirks harder, "Surely, Master Bruce."

"Really, Alfred, your sarcasm has increased terribly lately," Bruce drawls as he takes the jacket from the butler and puts it on. "I wouldn't be surprised if-"

Suddenly, the tv, that had been a pleasant background noise through their conversation, changes from Discovery Channel to something else. A shaky homemade video of... a man strapped to a chair.

"Are you the real Bat Man?" A voice behind the camera asks. It sounds unsteady, mocking. The person who spoke laughs, as the man strapped to the chair (who's dressed in a cheap imitation of Batman) shakes in fear.

"No," he whispers. The sound is almost inaudible.

"No! No?! Then why do you dress up like him?!" The haunting, high pitch laugh follows again. A hand takes off the rubber mask the kidnapped was wearing and wiggles it in front of the camera.

"He's a symbol," the man says. He's afraid, that much is clear. His eyes avoid who he's speaking to and his face is bloated, as if he had been beaten. " that we don't have to be afraid of scum like you."

Another laugh. The man behind the camera, who Bruce assumes by now is Joker, yanks the guy hard by the hair.

"Oh, you do Brian. You really do," the camera turns to the Joker. And a whited faced, green haired, scarred clown stares back.

"You see? This is how crazy Bat Man's made Gotham. If you want order in Gotham, Bat Man must to turn himself in. And everyday he doesn't, people will die. I'm starting tonight, I'm a man of my word," the clown smiles, before laughing maniacally. He places the camera in some kind of surface, pointing it at the strapped man. Then the clown approaches him, taking out a knife.

"Folks, I suggest if you have kids watching, turn off your television. This is about to get bloody"

Alfred's voice cuts through the laughing and terrified screaming coming from the tv.

"Master Bruce"

Bruce, however, is entranced by what's happening on the screen. He's about to see, step by step, how the displays he saw the other night came to be. Every cut, every struggle, every expression...

"Master Bruce!"

Bruce jumps, rapidly turning to Alfred.

"What?"

"We don't have to watch the whole thing. You should call Gordon," Alfred says, tentatively. He's watching Bruce with something in his eyes.

The subject of such attentions does not notice though. Through his weird daze, Bruce manages to catch what the older man says. He nods absentmindedly, his eyes tracing back to the screen, where a knife is cutting through flesh. Agonizing screams fill the room. The victim is still alive while it's happening.

"Yes. Yes, I should," but he barely hears his own words. Oh, the Joker takes the heart out _after _skinning the face. I mean, why wouldn't he...

Alfred turns off the tv.


	2. Part 2

You know something he likes? Tigers, he likes tigers. Such magnificent creatures, all sharp teeth and smooth elegance. Tigers are nice. Unlike all other animals, which he considers such petulance, he thinks he could tolerate a tiger. Pet it maybe, if he saw one.

But that’s the thing, he’s never seen one.

He's looked though! He’s always looked. Under every bed and behind every wall, he even checks twice (most of the time) before bombing a place, might one be lurking there. He wouldn’t want to blow it up. No, no, that wouldn’t be good.

But there never are.

Burning bright in the… the forest. And symmetry. And tigers. They all go together.

Immortal hands and eyes.

Tigers. Tigers are rare, so he wouldn’t blow up a tiger. He would pet it, maybe die by it. Let it kill him.

That would be fun.

Giggles of excitement escape him at the thought. Yes, he should find a tiger.

What dared frame thy fearful symmetry?

A wavery voice breaks through his fantasy.

“B-boss?”

Joker groans. No, of course not. Of course he won’t find a tiger in this dreaded city. You can’t find a diamond among shit, just like you can’t find tigers among pigs. This city is infested with them. He turns the wet knife on his hand as he cranes his neck to look back at the one trembling behind him. Joker should slaughter it right now, but he’s killed too many of his goons already. He needs him until he’s done with the whole “operation.” Or maybe not, maybe he’ll kill him on the way. Maybe he’ll kill him now.

Instead, he looks back at the interrupter.

“What? It better be important Jose, working on something here”

The henchman’s name was, in fact, not Jose. But would the not-Jose be correcting the man with a mangled corpse at his feet? No, no he wouldn’t. He didn’t sign up for this. He was here for the money. And if he hadn’t lost rock-paper-scissors with the other guys, he wouldn’t be here in the room. He tries not to look at the body the Joker is crouching over. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t look. Shit, he looked.

Not-Jose gulps.

“We-we should leave, the live broadcast ended twenty minutes ago. They might find us.”

Joker nods. Ah, that. He’d forgotten about that. Boring killing and all. That’s why he was spacing out. Because of how boring this all was. Usually, he would feel all tingly, excited during and after one of his killings. But today wasn’t it. He might attributed to the fact that he had to ruin his perfect number for the sake of sending a message to the Bat Man. But he knew it was because he’d become tired of carving the same thing. Heart out, skin off. He’d made it a little more fun by taking out the heart while it was still beating. But it wasn’t the same. This had become boring.

He didn’t like boring.

“You’re right, ma man Jose. You’re totally right,” Joker stands up, briefly glancing at his latest creation. He had to give it to himself, it was a pretty sight. How the whole thing came together with the blend of reds and pinks. He runs the knife over his pants to clean the blood off.

And what shoulder, and what art…

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

Immortal eyes

Fearful symmetry.

He guesses he’s mumbling again when Jose shakes a bit harder. God, he always gets the sissies.

“Get your best clothes pretty boy. We’re going to a party!” Joker announces, making a grand gesture with his hands before dropping the one with the knife on Jose’s shoulder.

The boy almost collapses.

It might not be such a boring day after all.

| x |

The wind ruffles brown hair as Bruce Wayne stares down at the city. He’d managed to get out of the party by an inch of his hair, everyone wanting to get a piece of him. After delivering that grand, and maybe kind of obnoxious, speech about Harvey, the place full of people had become too crowded. Way too stifling for him. It always had been like that, he’s never been fond of these sort of events.

Sometimes he finds it harder to maintain the mask of Bruce Wayne than he does the one of Batman.

Trowing away his drink, he watches the clear liquid fall in the air towards the street below.

His mind wanders to the image he saw earlier today— when he’d turned the tv back on after Alfred had left the room. How the Joker had been laughing while ripping off skin, how blood just kept coming, and coming, and the screams hadn’t ceased.

How it looked so right once that mask had been off.

“What are you smiling about?” A soft, curious voice asks. Rachel comes in through crystal doors, and walks in measured strides towards Bruce.

“I’m not smiling”

“You are”

He isn’t. Bruce is not smiling. But then he feels the muscles on his face relax, and he realizes that he was. The billionaire doesn’t say anything.

Not noticing the shift in Bruce’s expression, Rachel fixes him with a glare. She crosses her arms on her chest.

“Harvey may not know you well enough to understand when you’re making fun of him, but I do,” her fingers are tapping on her arm. Just like they do when she’s mad. This little gesture is what prompts Bruce to get out from wherever he was in his head. His eyes finally focus on her, who somehow walked from the entrance to right in front of him without Bruce even perceiving it.

Coming back to himself, he catches what the woman’s talking about. “No, I meant every word,” he tells her. Because he did. He does believe in Harvey Dent.

But she’s obviously not convinced, her green eyes full with scrutiny. He’d missed them, those eyes. He gives her his most reassuring smile, trying to ignore that train of thought.

“You know that day you once told me about, when Gotham would no longer need Batman? It’s coming.”

“Bruce,” she stops him. She breaks eye contact with him and redirects her gaze to the side. Rachel looks so pained, he thinks. And he always knew, that she wouldn’t take him. That she wouldn’t wait.

That she wouldn’t take him— couldn’t take him. Because there are things nobody can.

“You can’t ask me to wait for that”

He never did.

Bruce forces another smile.

“Right now, Harvey is that hero,” he finishes, disregarding her words. “He locked up half of the city’s criminals and he did it without wearing a mask,” he wants her to see, he wants her to know that he means what he’s saying— to see that there’s more to it. But he can’t, she wouldn’t get it, no matter how hard he tries to tell her with one look.

“Gotham needs a hero with a face.”

When Harvey comes into the balcony, and Rachel’s understanding gaze turns towards him, Bruce knows he wasn’t heard.

He never is.

| x |

They don’t understand.

They don’t. They don’t. They don’t understand.

He’d wanted to make them, make them see. But, after the seventh, he realized they were blind. They couldn’t see. They wouldn’t. Blind by choice, perhaps, but still blind. Blind pigs trapped in a cage of their own creation, and when enlightenment comes knocking on their door, they dismiss it. Over look it. Shatter it.

“Mutilated victims” they call them. “Mauled” by a “psycho” who’s “bloodthirsty” and who’s “extremely dangerous.”

Okay, maybe the last one’s kinda true. But alas, that’s irrelevant.

They weren’t “victims,” they hadn’t been “mauled.” They were…

He didn’t know what they were.

He just knew they didn’t get it. Whatever that was. And he understood they would never understand it, but he kept trying to make them.

His attempts had become boring, as his last demonstration had proved. For an instant there, he’d thought that maybe there was nothing to get in the first place. That if they didn’t understand, and if he didn’t know what they didn’t understand, maybe there was nothing to understand. But no. no, no, no, no, no. That can’t be

If there is nothing to understand then… then he was only… He was…

BAM!

“Good evening ladies and gentle men. We are tonight’s entertainment!”

He was having so much fun.

The room breaks into mayhem as soon as Joker and his goons step out of the elevator. The sight of guns calms them down a notch. But their frightened, wide eyed gazes fill the Joker with a rush he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Ah, yes. This was it. He was made for this.

He walks around a bit, picking food from the trays and intimidating them. Nice place this was, floor so shiny you could eat off them.

He should make them try that.

He shakes his head. No, no. He was here for the Bat Man.

“I just have one question,” he says, as patiently as he can. He’s enjoying this, so he can’t make any harsh moves. “Where is Harvey Dent?”

Nobody answers. They just fearfully look at him move around like he was some kind of animal. He waves the shotgun at some of them as he passes them, takes someone’s drink. That, that’s some good stuff.

“Uhm?” He asks again. He might not have the patience for this.

“You know where Harvey is?” He asks one, slaps his cheek a bit.

“Ya know where he is?” He asks another one.

Fuck. He might have to kill someone.

“We’re not intimidated by thugs,” an old man breaks in. Oh, that one. He’ll so kill that one. Joker smiles and takes out his favorite knife, the one he keeps with him at all times. Maybe they’ll talk if he gives them an incentive. Something to make the floors look less shiny.

But just as he takes the old man’s face in his hands, knife beautifully close to the moron's mouth, a woman interrupts him.

“Okay stop,” she says. Voice all authoritative and annoyingly not shaky. She steps up confidently, like she owns the place. Like she knows something he doesn’t. And oh does he hate those. The ones who think there’s some kind of divine order, who will destroy and push away everything that doesn’t conform to it. The ones who pretend to save the world with a glare.

He smiles again, “Well, hello, beautiful!” He fixes his hair, licks his scar some, they’re incredibly dry.

“You must be Harvey’s squeeze,” striding closer, he points the knife at her general direction. The petite woman just crosses her arms and looks him up and down, if she’s scared she doesn’t show it. This was so, so fun. He should do something like this again in the future.

Maybe in a theater. Or a school.

No, not a school.

The girl’s confident act crumbles when the Joker is face to face with her. She turns, eyes avoiding his. Yes, yes, she might be a squealer. He knows a squealer when he sees one.

“Oh, you look nervous. Is it the scars?” Upon her trying to get away, he grabs her by the face, making her look at him. She tries to shake him away, but he’s stronger, of course. When he has her where he wants her, he takes his knife and places it close to her face. Really close. Her wide eyes are glued to it. Satisfied, Joker tells her how he got them. The scars. He thinks the story might be a fake one. But it might not.

What’s the difference.

Wife and loan sharks, fathers and alcohol. A scar is a scar. Is all the same no matter how he got it. But they don’t think that, to them, a scar is only a scar depending on the story. So he changes the story depending on the person he’s telling it to. He’s not lying, all the stories are real. Because all the stories are true. Because truth is true no matter how you get to it. Because something’s true if it is understood.

But they don’t understand, so he might be lying.

“… now I see the funny side,” he finishes. “Now I’m always smiling.”

That’s when she punches him.

He scrambles backwards, “A little fight in you. I like that”

“Then you’re going to love me”

The voice that cuts through before all hell breaks loose is deep and ruff. _Fake_, Joker thinks as he’s being thrown across the room. Everything that happened after is kind of a blur, him being in an adrenaline high and all. His goons charge at Batman, in the lead of Jose, surprisingly. He might not kill the boy, maybe give him a raise. The bat deals with them effortlessly, which is kind of a surprise really. He didn’t have high expectations of the man, didn’t think that much about him in the first place.

Somewhere among the ruckus, Joker is punched to the floor again. Right next to a gun. Ha. How the universe works in mysterious ways.

“Drop the gun,” the Man of Bats tells him. Joker caught the little princess, a beautiful glass window is behind him as he holds her at gun point.

How the universe works in mysterious ways.

“Sure, just take off your little mask and show us all who you really are!”

When the bat gives no answer, as he thought he wouldn’t, Joker cackles. Then shoots at the window behind him, which crumbles into pieces.

Mysterious ways.

“Let her go,” Batman warns. Oh, and was that funny.

“Very poor choice of words”

Not that mysterious. Everything that falls out a window, well, falls. The girl falls.

And the bat throws himself after her.

| x |

He threw Rachel out a window.

  
For a millisecond, Bruce stood there, perplexed, before jumping out to get her.

He was surprised, for the briefest of seconds, by the mad man's actions. What? He didn't expect him to kill people when he'd known— seen him do it?

Bruce's knuckles turn white as he balls his hands into fists, anger rising in him. In his mind he wonders why the reaction came so late, to feel anger like that towards a psychopath. Why before he'd been avoiding meeting him and now he just wanted to kill him. He might've asked 'why' out loud, as Alfred seemed to think he was asking him a question. Looking at various video footages of the Joker displaying on the screen, he shrugs.

"Well, Master Bruce, some men aren't looking for anything logical," he says, turning to Bruce and eying him curiously, "they can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with." Alfred briefly cuts eye contact with him, directing his gaze to something behind Bruce.

"Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

| x |

When the boss is mad, a lot of things break.

Which is always a surprise, as there’s not much to break in their current hideout— an abandoned old building. Today, nothing’s being broken, meaning they don’t exactly know what mood the boss is in.

Goon #2 prides himself in the knowledge that he knows the boss real well, so he knows the boss won’t kill him. He knows that won’t happen to him, it might happen to others, but not to him. He knows the boss real well. But even then, Goon #2 is smarter than to seek the boss when he is not sure how the waters are.

Contrary to popular belief, the others aren’t as stupid either, this results in the never ending dispute when it comes to asking or telling the boss something. Nobody wants to do it. So they have to play rock-paper-scissors every time. Lucky for them, Martini’s shit at rock-paper-scissors.

Outside of the room nobody wants to go in, Goon #2 and some of the guys wait for the unlucky man’s return. Or maybe the sound of a gunshot, or a scream, whatever comes first.

Instead, Martini comes out after a couple of minutes, swiftly closing the door behind him before they could take a peek.

“So, how’re things?” Goon #2 asks, things must be pretty well, as Martini’s head’s still on his shoulders. “Anything new?”

The other shrugs, “He’s mumbling, talking to himself. More than usual.”

“Shakespeare?” One of the new recruits asks.

One of the oldies, one that was lucky enough to not be in the bank robbery, bats a dismissing hand at him, “Nah, he hasn’t been on it for weeks.”

“Fuck, not Shakespeare,” another one of the oldies.

They’d figure that one out a few months ago. Well, Martini had. The boy was always reading some book. It seems the boss’ nonsensical murmuring wasn’t that nonsensical after all. Which Goon #2 never thought it was, unlike others, Goon #2 knew the boss wasn’t crazy. That’s why he’s here, not because of the money. He admires the boss. But it had been Martini who had identified one of the boss’ low babbles as a mix and match of some Shakespearean poem. Not all of them were, but those are the only ones the kid recognizes. And eventually, they noticed that the days when fingers were being cut off, were the days they heard Shakespeare.

It was a good identifier for his mood.

“No,” Martini cuts in. “It’s about tigers, and symmetry or something.”

“Should we google it?”

"No, Vincent, we shouldn't google it. That's not why we sent the boy in there."

"Right, right. What'd he say? Did he say anything?”

"Yeah, are we gonna keep chasing Batman? This some bullshit."

Martini nods, "He said we're gonna make an appearance during the ceremony next week. Said to start looking for police uniforms."

"Fuck"

But apart from the curses, none of the guys made to object. Who would object the boss? Goon #2, however, did not like the idea. Not at all. And even if he did admire the boss, and even if he would not, in his wildest dreams, not do something the boss asked of him, he'd come to the conclusion that the boss' judgement was being clouded. They had been having so much fun, stealing, going around the city creating havoc. But what? Were they going to give that up for a bat? No, Goon #2 was sure he understood his boss, and he understood this wasn't something the boss really wanted.

"Move Martini, I'm going in"

Something must have been showing on Goon #2’s face, because the boy puts a placating hand on his chest, "I don't think thats a good idea.”

Fuck. He never liked Martini. Ever since he came around. He was one of those who joined them for the money, better than the crazies, but far less dignified. Goon #2 was neither, he’d joined the boss for his philosophy, what he symbolized. These fools wouldn’t understand, they were only here for the dough or because the boss freed them from some mental hospital.

_We are here_, the boss’ actions yell._ We shall not be forgotten, as much as you push us aside, we will not let you forget us_. That’s what the explosions and killings were all about. That’s what the boss was all about. Sure, the boss had never said anything like that, but Goon #2 knew. He knew the boss so well.

So he knew this Batman thing was not what the boss wanted.

“Move,” Goon #2 growls. Harsher, more threateningly. Martini looks at him for a moment, some sort of regretful expression on his face, and steps out of the way. Goon #2 hears some murmurs from the guys as he makes his way towards the door. _He’s dead_ and _what an idiot_ louder than the others. But he doesn’t care. He knows his boss. He grabs the doorknob and opens the door confidently. There was no Shakespeare today, he was fine.

“B-boss?” Still, his voice comes out broken. It takes Goon #2 some time before he notices the boss is sitting on the floor. Cross-legged, he sits in the center of the room, head down as he does something, surrounded by what appears to be hundreds of sheets of paper.

Drawings, Goon #2 realizes, when he sees the face of a masked vigilante carefully shaded on one of the papers. All of the papers. Batman, Batman, Batman, it was all Batman. Different angles, different tilt to his lips, there was one where all you could see was the uncovered part of his face, but it was all Batman.

That only added to Goon #2’s bitterness.

The boss hadn’t been behaving the same, ever since they came from that party a week ago. He had ordered them to kill some people, but the boss hadn’t been out once. This is what he’d been doing.

The green haired clown does not seem to be aware of Goon #2’s presence in the room. He’s enraptured in the current drawing he’s working on. His hands work fast as he draws, his broken mumbles filling the air.

“Burnt the fire of thine… thine immortal hand. Right. Immortal eyes. And those spears… and tears. Tears on the.. the lamb. No, not the lamb. The chain, on the chain and hammer…”

“Boss”

“…where the tiger. The tiger. Where the tiger lays. Burns, where he burns bright. Poor tiger. What… hand dare make… dread thy heart. Dare frame such… feet. Such fearful… fearful… fearful…”

“Boss!”

Joker looks up.

“What?”

Goon #2’s mind goes blank. The boss’ voice is clipped, deadly. Only one word, and Goon #2 knew he’d miscalculated. But he knows the boss. He knows the boss. He couldn’t let Batman come in between what they were doing. Such grandiose work. The boss would understand, he would agree. He would stop with this chasing the Batman non-sense.

“I’m here to talk- talk to you about the Bat-Batman”

At that, the Joker’s ears perk up. His eyes seem to come back from whatever far away land they were on before.

“What about the bat? Has he done something?” he asks, un-murderous, intense interest on his tone. Goon #2’s breathing comes easier.

“No. But Martini— Jose,” he corrects, “Jose told us about the plan of interfering in the ceremony next week.”

As understanding dawns on the Joker, the man sighs, going back to his drawing, “What about that?”

Goon #2 clears his throat, “I- I just thought, it’s not worth it. To-to chase Batman like this. We’re— you’re meant to do more. To show them. Send them a message. Batman’s a distraction.”

Joker hums, not taking his eyes off his drawing, “and what may that message be, good friend of mine?”

Finally. This is his moment. To show he understood the boss. To show him he was worthy to be on his side— by his side.

“That we exist too”

The silence that hangs in the air after those words are out is heavy and long. The pencil motion on the paper stops, and Goon #2 doesn’t dare look up from his shoes.

“Ha,” the boss says after what feels like an eternity. “Of course.”

Goon #2 smiles. He knew. He knew the boss would understand. In his ecstatic satisfaction, Goon #2 forgets to look up to see the Joker’s expression. And in doing so, misses what lays there as an open warning. Instead, when the Joker tells him,

“Good head you got there, come here”

Goon #2 does so without a question. There’s a skip to his step as he approaches his boss, whose now standing among all the papers laying on the floor. Goon #2 steps on some as he walks over to him.

And if the guys outside heard a scream and some gurgling, well, they knew better than to do anything about it. The had warned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for cutting it here. Like, I haven't given you their *real* reactions to their encounter. Don't worry though, next chapter will have all of that and a bit more.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to ma man Alfred, because every Brit’s way of emotional support is offering you tea.
> 
> (Lmao I love y'all brits, I'm just playing, please don't colonize me)

In front of him stands a mirror image. Of whom, he does not know. Grey suit, bowler hat and tie— the personification of societal perfection. The figure stands there, as still as a mannequin. As dead as they come. Dead while alive.

Bruce would feel pity for the man weren’t it for that apple that stands in front of the figure’s face, blocking it from view.

The green fruit hangs from nothing— mocking Bruce, making his skin crawl, his teeth grind together.

“He has no face as long I am here”

“He’s not here as long as I am”

It says. And Bruce can’t do anything else but reach out to it. To yank it out of the way, to let him _see._

He might be scared to see who’s behind that apple. But he has to know.

He needs to see the face.

But that fucking apple is on the way.

_Well then, who are you?_

Warm fingertips brush the cold core of the fruit, calm rage guiding Bruce’s actions.

_I am…_

With the blow of a wind, what’s visible of the face turns to raw muscle, sleek tendons, devoid of skin. And the mocking green apple disappears, being replaced by a beating heart. The man is no longer a man, if he ever was, he’s something better. Higher. For his neat suit is tainted by red, and his soul has been taken out of his chest.

Metamorphoses.

_I am…_

Who with such power

Who with such vision

Can see past the visible

And see more.

_I am…_

The soft tissue touching Bruce’s fingertips beats a calming rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. And blood drips from the muscle to the floor, with each passing drop Bruce’s rage completely dissolves. His eyes now glued to the masterpiece in front of him.

_Oh_, he thinks, as he slowly retracts his hand.

Oh

_I am…_

"The spirit of perpetual negation.”

Who.

Who can see?

_For all that comes to be…_

“Deserves to perish wretchedly”

Bruce lays on the floor, eyes closed. His body isn’t his, as isn’t his voice. He’s at peace, with the pool of red coming from the body next to him, soaking him in its grandeur.

He’s at peace, not having seen the face, for it isn’t him. For in its beauty, it is separate. For the apple isn’t in his eyes,

It is in theirs.

He smiles.

Who.

Who can see?

He, he who’s seen

_Hell_.

_I am…_

“The part of the part that once was…”

_Everything._

I am…

Part of the darkness,

From which Light disputed the highest place

With its mother Night,

The bounds of Space,

_And yet won_

“Nothing”

However hard it tried.

_I am…_

_The spirit that denies,_

That which you call Sin,

_Destruction,_

A part.

I am that still stuck to Bodily Things,

_And so denied._

_It flows from bodies, which it beautifies,_

_And bodies block its way._

Bruce breaths, because he’s alive. As he hadn’t been. As he won’t be.

Because that apple will be there when he opens his eyes.

He won’t have a face.

_I am…_

He who sees and sees more.

Why?

_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_

_I am…_

He who’s seen hell.

_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_

_Because we fall to…_

Enlarge his kingdom.

I am…

_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_

_A part so denied_

_The retched and the damned._

_The ones who forget._

_I am…_

That which is free.

_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_

For all that comes to be

deserves to perish wretchedly.

_I am…_

_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_

I am

_Darkness_

I am

_Power_

I am

_Vision_

I am

_Sin_

I am

_Dolor_

I am

_Negation_

I am

_A part_

I am

“**Him**”

| x |

Alfred Pennyworth is not a very emotional man.

Nor is he very expressive. He might have his moments, but overall he keeps to himself, only talking when it is appropriate. He’s not too big on feelings, never was, but he knows when it is required to talk about them. At least, now he knows.

A soldier that returns from war never really returns, a part of him is forever lost. Alfred is no different, part of him is out there on the battle field, perhaps still fighting. And the part that remains is a part that is never the same. It needs work. It always does. And Alfred, being the self sufficient man that he is, thought he managed that aspect of war really well. He didn’t lose himself, like he’s seen so many do, he’s still here. He even found a good place along the way with the Waynes. And when tragedy struck he was there to pick up the pieces, to pick up Bruce.

He thought he managed it well.

That was until he realized that a child who’s lost his parents needs more than a butler. But by the time he had, it was too late. Bruce had grown up, and done so alone— even though Alfred had been there.

He loves Bruce as though he was his own. But even then, Alfred isn’t blind. He might’ve been emotionally lacking in the past, but he was observant. Every meal Bruce rejected, every tear he shed, Alfred had been there to see it. Alfred knows Bruce, knows him like he does the palm of his hand.

He knows he’s incredibly caring, and righteous. He knows he’s immensely brave and smart. But he knows that kid in the park hadn’t fall down the stairs, and that the squirrel he’d found by the bushes hadn’t died of natural causes.

Alfred knows Bruce.

Sometimes he thinks that maybe it was his fault. That maybe if he’d hugged him more, if he had called him Bruce instead of Master, maybe things would be different. But Alfred’s old, and he knows there are things that cannot be stopped, that there are things that just are.

Alfred loves Bruce.

Lately Master Bruce has been tired. He hasn’t said so, but it is evident in the dark circles underneath his eyes and the far away look he occasionally gets. Alfred has a suspicion the nightmares have returned. He wouldn’t be surprised, with the madman going about and the pressure from the public demanding Batman to reveal his identity. And Miss Dawes. Yes, Alfred’s fairly sure the nightmares have returned.

When Harvey Dent announced that he was Batman on the press conference a few days ago, Alfred had been relieved. He knows he shouldn’t have been, but he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing Bruce in handcuffs. However, Alfred knows all the problems this is bringing to Bruce— Miss Dawes resenting him for letting Mister Dent take his place and Bruce’s own self-guilt for not having stepped up himself.

Because Alfred knows the nightmares have returned, and because Bruce is too hardheaded to ask for assistance, Alfred has being hovering around Bruce’s bedroom at night. Cleaning this and that, waiting for a signal that the Master needs help. It’s been three nights since he started, and nothing has happened, no sign of distress or struggle. The only thing Alfred needs is one opportunity to go in the room and let Bruce know that it is okay, that if he needs assistance Alfred is there. But nothing has happened.

Until it does.

Out in the hall, where he is cleaning a vase for what must be the tenth time in the last three nights, a cry takes his attention away from his duties. Immediately, Alfred drops the rag on the floor and hurries to Master Bruce’s bedroom at the end of the hallway. As he enters the room, he notices that the lights are on, something Bruce didn’t stop doing until he was seventeen, and started doing when his parents had died. On the King’s size bed, a startled Bruce sits. Hand entangled in his messy hair as he pants. His eyes are fixated on the white wall at the opposite end of his bed, but he’s not really seeing it. He has that far away look again. He’s scared.

Alfred quickly makes his way towards Bruce, rapidly siting on the edge of the mattress and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. Bruce doesn’t react, he just keeps staring at the wall. His chest quickly moves up and down, his breathing doesn’t slow down.

“Deep breaths, Master Bruce. In and out,” Alfred commands him, because he’s dealt with his fair share of this in his lifetime. But Bruce is not listening, on the contrary, he seems to get more anxious.

“I pushed her,” Bruce whispers, so low Alfred almost didn’t hear it. His eyes are wide open, as in surprise, in realization. “I pushed her,” he repeats again, and it sounds pained. Like the words were ripped out of his chest.

Alfred knows he shouldn’t ask, he knows he should try to calm him down, keep with the breathing exercises. But he can’t stop himself, a voice at the back of his head telling him that Bruce might have pushed someone who wasn’t a criminal. And if he did, no matter how grave the damage, Alfred would have to know in order to make the proper arrangements.

Alfred loves Bruce.

“Who?”

And finally Bruce seems to register Alfred is there. His eyes quickly find his. He looks lost, vulnerable, in a way he hasn’t been since that night.

“Rachel”

Now, Alfred knows for sure Miss Dawes is fine, they’d just had a talk yesterday. Bruce doesn’t appear to know that, because the hand still on his hair starts trembling, his voice wavers.

“I threw her… I pushed her out the window”

“You did not do anything to harm Miss Dawes”

“But I pushed her Alfred,” he says again. And his eyes are pleading, begging for understanding. “I pushed her, and she fell.”

Alfred takes Bruce’s hand away from his hair and holds it in both of his own.

“You didn’t push her. The Joker did.”

Bruce’s quick breathing slows down a bit, and his far away gaze seems to come back to reality.

“The Joker did,” he repeats, as if trying out how the words roll out his tongue. “I didn’t push her, the Joker did.”

“Yes,” Alfred nods. A hand going to Bruce’s back and stroking him there, trying to ground him. “But you saved her. She’s fine.”

“She’s fine”

“She’s fine,” the older man assures him. He’d never seen Bruce like this. Yes, he’d had his nightmares, but it was never anything like this. Forgetting who he was, switching identities with someone else.

_The Joker, _that voice in his head reminds him. But Alfred ignores it. Right now isn’t the time to think about that. Not now. Not when Bruce is still trembling and that lost look is still in his eyes.

They stay like that for a while, until Bruce’s breathing evens out.

“Do you want some tea?” Alfred asks him, when he’s sure Bruce is about to apologize.

“Yes”

Alfred stands up, making his way towards the door. He goes out, satisfied by the fact he can be of help to Bruce, oblivious the mantra that started as soon as he left the room.

“I am Bruce Wayne. My name is Bruce Wayne.”

Because, although better with his emotional skills, Alfred’s observational skills might be faltering. Because, although he loves him, there are things which are only visible when the observer wants to see them.

Because there are things that no one wants to see.

| x |

He had done everything.

He’d ordered his goons to kill a couple of civilians. He’d even gone to that ridiculous ceremony and made a show out of their ridiculous funeral. Stole some uniforms. Kidnapped some guards. Shot at the mayor. Might or might have not killed James Gordon.

The Joker had done everything. And the Bat Man had. Not. Showed.

To say he’d been mad is an understatement.

He’d been livid.

After their first meeting, because that’s what it was— the first meeting of many to come, the Joker couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. How the Man of Bats had looked at him just as he pushed the girl out to her death, how the Bat had stopped. He had actually stopped.

He had actually stopped and stared.

Anyone else would have missed it, it was as brief and short as the blink of an eye. But not Joker. No. Time had stopped with him right there. And he _saw _him. He saw the Batman. They had seen each other.

And the Batman had been furious.

The Joker still smiles every time he thinks about it.

That day had been a good day, despite the fact the vigilante had thrown himself after the girl. And oh how he had thrown himself. Without a single doubt. Like he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t. Because that’s what he was, a vessel for others’ survival, because their survival signifies his own.

That couldn’t be Harvey.

No. No, no, no, no. Not little Harvey.

He knows the type like Harvey. They save for others. Save because that’s how things should be. The big bad should be annihilated, the victims should be saved. Black and white. They break so easily.

But not Batman.

He’s so much more.

But the Joker has been wrong before.

Those dark, dark eyes. And that jaw. That chin. It couldn’t be Harvey.

Dark, bottomless eyes.

He was sure.

Then Harvey came in and announced he was the Batman.

And Batman had not showed.

That’s when he lost it.

Lucky for him, the route of Harvey's re-location was being broadcasted real time through radio a few days later. They were just asking for it.

In the illuminated night of the city, a police truck is followed by a white semi-truck. The latter races the former, trying to get to the right distance. Then the semi-truck opens, a clown and his henchmen in sight. The Joker makes a motion with his hand and a gun is given to him by one of his goons. Was it Jose? It might’ve been Jose.

Fuck Harvey.

He shoots at the dark truck a few times. A lot of times. Okay, maybe he was venting his anger a little. But he knew the bullets wouldn’t penetrate it. The Joker might be really mad at Harvey right now, but he didn’t want to kill him. He could be Batman, after all.

But he’s mad at Batman too.

He gets his shotgun.

When that has as much impact on the vehicle as the hand gun, the Joker groans. Bazooka time.

This time he doesn’t point it at the truck, but at the police car in front of it. With one BOOM, the car is flipped over and the only thing left to deal with is the police truck where Harvey is being transported.

He thought this would be more fun, he’s just angry.

He’s about to call it all off, and by that he means actually bomb the shit and call it a day, when he hears the engines of another vehicle approaching.

The smile that brazes his lips when he sees who’s coming is so wide he thinks his scars might have re-opened. He would have kept smiling even if they did.

He knew it.

Dark, bottomless eyes.

The kind you can drown in.

Batman drives at top speed in his car-tank, rapidly approaching them. And all is well again.

And all is fun again.

Joker laughs, loud and free and_ excited_. Now things were getting good. Now he could kill Dent. He reloads his bazooka again and points it at the police truck.

He shoots.

But a black car-tank _jumps _and takes the hit instead.

Oh, yes. This was it.

“Excuse me, I wanna drive,” the Joker says as pushes the driver off the seat. The blast had made the whole thing stop, the force of it knocking the driver of their truck unconscious. The Joker got off from the back and went to take his place. He knew this wasn’t the end. The explosion might’ve crumbled Batman’s car but it hadn’t killed him. He would be out and about in an instant.

It couldn’t have killed him.

Not now.

The Joker sings as he drives and looks around for Batman. He was so excited. Batman couldn’t have died. So he sings and looks out the windows for him, as he follows the police truck. He didn’t forget about Dent. He was so gonna kill him. The Joker was great at multi-tasking.

“Okay, rack ‘em up. Rack ‘em up, rack ‘em up, rack ‘em up,” he sing-songs over the walkie talkie. Those things were great. He loved the name. You can walk-ie and talk-ie at the same time. Ha. And it was about time for the wires. The helicopters were hovering above them and it was about time for the wires. The wires and more explosions.

The view of a helicopter coming down and colliding with the ground is glorious. The flames, the crash. God, who would he be without Batman now.

Who was he before Batman?

And there he is.

The caped vigilante came out of an alley, right in front of the Joker’s truck, driving towards him in a monster-wheeled motorcycle. The Joker could feel his heart beating out of his chest, he could feel the stirring wheel in his hands, the wind on his curls. He could feel everything. He felt alive. Because Batman was right there.

Who was he before?

He couldn’t remember.

The vigilante speeds towards him, faster and faster. As does Joker.

“You wanna play. Come one, come on,” he giggles, stepping on the gas. But as they’re about to collide, the motorcycle dips, doing some kind of maneuver under Joker’s truck. And then there’re wires. And then,

BAM!

The semi-truck rolls over itself at full speed, landing on its back.

Shit. That. That hurt.

Ignoring the glass, and the blood, coming from the impact, the Joker scrambles out of what’s left of the vehicle and shakes his head a bit.

Batman. Batman. Batman. Batman.

They’re not over yet.

He takes his shotgun as he gets out, trips over some glass and shoots the gun by accident. He laughs. That’s okay, that’s okay. He needs to find Batman.

He sees the motorcycle parked by the curve.

Batman starts the engine and begins driving straight towards him.

“Come on, I want you to do it,” fuck there're cars in the way. There are fucking cars in the way. He shoots at the morons. He needs to see him. The Joker shoots at the cars that are in the way as he walks towards the Bat. But not at the Bat. No, never at the Bat.

“Come on, come on,” he feels his fingertips tingling in anticipation, his heart fluttering. His world shaking. The Bat speeds faster, and he looks marvelous, dangerous, real.

He’s real.

He’s there.

_All sharp teeth and smooth elegance_

“Come on, hit me”

_He’s never seen one_

The Joker stops walking and stands in the middle of the road. Waiting for him, aching for him. _Finally_.

_He wouldn’t blow it up. Maybe pet it._

“Hit me, hit me”

He was close.

_Maybe die by it_

So close.

“**I want you to hit me**!”

_Let it kill him_

And just as he heard a yell coming from Batman, as he was going to _finally _collide with him, Batman skidded out of the way. The motorcycle crashing with the semi-truck behind him instead.

_That would be fun._

Joker stands there for a second, not having processed what just happened. Or what didn’t happened.

He didn’t hit him.

Always a surprise, his little Batsy was.

He thinks he’s heard of it. That on rule. Ha, who was he kidding, he’d done his research. He knew about that one rule. He’d asked around. But he had forgotten, in all his raw excitement.

But no. Maybe that’s not it.

Maybe this was a different kind of game.

A better one.

Yeah, he could do this too.

The Joker takes out a flip blade from his suit, starts skipping towards the unconscious Batman on the floor.

Yes, a different kind of game. A better one. A longer one.

He’s not one for commitment, but he could do it. For Batman. His Batman.

And just when he thought things couldn’t get better, as he was kneeling over the Bat who laid oh so vulnerably on the floor, he felt a gun on the back of his head. James Gordon’s voice was saying something. But he didn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear it. Because Batman was opening his eyes, and there was that moment again. The moment when everything stops and it’s just them. Just like the first time. And the Joker sees everything Batman doesn’t want him to see. And he smiles. Because this is a long one. A better one. The only one. And he sees him. Really sees him. But nothing he sees could have prepared him for Batman’s next words.

“Next time, think better before spreading your designs in someone else’s city”

And the earth doesn’t shake, no, the ground disappears. The skies descend. The air stands still.

_Designs_

The worldrearranges itself anew,

Because he found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various things here:
> 
> 1\. I so wanted to make this longer, but I also want to take my time with their next scene together so I cut it here. Shit will start deviating from canon officially from next chapter.
> 
> 2\. Omg the comments. Really thank you to everyone who's been commenting, ya'll feed my muse (I really don't think I'm using that term correctly). I love reading you guys' analysis of the characters, and the only reason I don't reply is because I'm so socially awkward I spent like half an hour thinking for a response to the first comment. I concluded that was not going to work. So I'll be answering to y'all here, less anxiety inducing. Jesus I really need therapy, or to get out more.
> 
> 3\. I love how Batman makes the Joker into a sappy school girl who drowns in the eyes of her crushes. ‘I mean can’t you see Beverly? He’s tall, dark, handsome. And those eyes! Oh, those eyes, I could stare into them for eternity and be content. *dramatic sigh*’. 
> 
> Is it proper to fangirl about something you wrote? Probably not, but the idea itself is fangirling worthy. Now I want to read some batjokes. This is a vicious cycle honestly.
> 
> 4\. I sit just me or did the scene where Joker wants Batman to hit him come out as slightly sexual? Like, I just realized after I re-read it.


	4. Chapter 4

One of Bruce’s most prevalent memories is playing the piano. Don’t get him wrong, he’s not the musical type in any stretch of the imagination, for a matter of fact, he hasn’t touched a piano in years. But after his parents died, the number of tutors coming in and out of the manor seemed to have increased, what now Bruce is sure was a way of Alfred to keep him busy, and piano lessons had been in the packet of classes that came and went.

And yes, Bruce might not be the musical type, but a kid with a lot of time to spare and a mind to hide from can get quite good at something if he keeps doing it religiously. First he merely did it as just another class among all the others, did it because it was just another thing to do. The mansion was too big, too quiet, his mind too loud. It was just something else to do. Another way to forget, although he never really did.

But then it became a little more, and the hours spent playing during lessons extended to his own personal time. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night, perhaps hands still shaky and the sour after taste of a nightmare still lingering in his being, and walking to the large room where an oak wood piano waited for him. He remembers walking in the dark hallways of the mansion unbidden, unafraid, as no nine year old should be. He remembers sitting on the wooden bench and playing melodies he doesn’t even recall.

He didn’t love it. He didn’t like it. He didn’t do it because he enjoyed it. It was more than that, he did it because he needed it. That’s the only way he can explain it. He didn’t like playing the piano.

There had been a metronome.

And Bruce would loose himself in the ticks.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

It wasn’t about playing, it was about that sound.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

About the trance inducing, simple sound that would take him nowhere at all and everywhere at once.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

It was about rearranging utter chaos and giving it meaning.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

Everything fell into place.

Time stood still.

It was never about the piano. So maybe his memories are faulty. The music had been a background noise, an addition to the main course.

It was about the ticks.

He’d needed it at the time— that stillness that allowed him to see through his mind and not be scared of what was in there. That moment in which nonsense made sense. In which he just _was, _and that was okay.

That was not the only occasion though, time had stood still in other moments for Bruce. Before his parents had died, when his mind wasn’t such a confusing place.

When a limping squirrel had stumbled upon his path and sweet curiosity had just _won_ over any other thought. When that curiosity had been satisfied and the squirrel didn’t breath anymore. Time had stood still.

When the leaves of a Weeping Willow had hanged as curtains, when the soft air made them sing and sunlight filter through its branches, when Bruce’s finger tips had lightly _pushed _and the boy had tumbled down concrete steps. Time had stood still as well. And Bruce had smiled.

However, time doesn’t stand still for him anymore. Because Bruce knows better. At twenty five years of age, Bruce Wayne has grown out of causing childish mischief that makes time “stand still.” There is no such thing as something that makes him comfortable with his own mind, because in his mind there is nothing to see. He’s already comfortable. It had all been child’s play, a delusion caused by the grief of his parents’ deaths. There was nothing to see. Time couldn’t stand still.

Bruce hasn’t played a piano since he was ten years old. Hasn’t seen a metronome in longer.

For Bruce Wayne, there’s no chaos to give meaning to.

For Bruce Wayne, time does not stand still.

It hadn’t stood still.

Bruce stands in the back corner of the room, the room is dark enough, and the head lights are dim enough, for his presence to go unnoticed by the subject sitting in the middle of the space. The clown’s back is turned to him, and Gordon is sitting in front of him, asking questions the Joker is not giving direct answers to.

“Who did you leave him with, your people? Ah, assuming they’re still your people,” the Joker answers yet another question with a question. At this rate they’ll never find Dent alive. Gordon seems to think as much because his face contorts, and although he tries to hide it, Bruce can see he’s finding it harder to stay calm and composed. The Joker continues.

“Does it depress you, commissioner?To know just how alone you really are?”

That’s when Gordon stands up, and gives Bruce his cue to step in. _Not exactly, _Gordon says when the Joker asks him, are _we playing at the old good cop bad cop routine? _Before leaving, the heavy metal door of the interrogation room closing with a _click._

And Bruce knows that’s exactly what they’re doing. Because he_ is_ the bad cop. He is supposed to be.

Five hours have passed since they caught the Joker. Two hours since they got informed Dent never made it home.

The MCU had erupted into mayhem immediately, and it had been a given for Batman to be there in order to help them in the matter. Past animosities be damned, it seemed. But Bruce didn’t care, because he also wanted to find Dent. He is the only true chance this city has, and Bruce should be livid at the idea of Dent being in danger, because that jeopardizes the city’s safety, its future. Not to mention Dent is important to Rachel as well. So it would only be _proper, _logical, for Bruce’s blood to be boiling right now— just like it had been when the Joker had thrownRachel out a window. Bruce should be enraged, and he should have stepped out of this dark corner and started beating answers out of the psychopath.

That’s what he should do.

Instead, minutes pass after Gordon leaves the room, and Bruce doesn’t let his presence be known. He watches the Joker’s back, who is now humming and swaying in place. The handcuffs strapping his wrists rattle at the motion, and the metal chair he’s sitting on protests. But he keeps swaying, and he hums a happy tune. It sounds familiar, that tune. But Bruce can’t pin point what it is.

_Tik_

_Tik_

The gallery clock sounds, accompanying the echo of the Joker’s hums in the small space.

“You know, there’s this story I like,” the Joker says, seemly to himself. It had to be, he didn’t know Bruce was there. The humming stops, as does the swaying. “Long, long ago there’d been a tiger. And a weird tiger it was, because at the time they didn’t have stripes. They were all… orange. Orange, and sharp teeth and smooth elegance,” he laughs before toning it down.

“And this, this tiger,” he continues. “He was envious of humans, for they possessed something called wisdom. And he wanted it too.”

_Tik_

_Tik_

“So one day he went to a man, and asked for some of this wisdom, otherwise the tiger would eat him. But the man tricked him, and he ended up tying the tiger to a tree with a rope. Setting him on fire.”

In this moment, Batman thinks Joker will cackle, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sounds as serious as any normal person. His voice falling a bit on the pitying side, as if he cares about this tiger he’s talking about. The clock keeps ticking.

_Tick_

_Tick_

“The tiger escaped, because the ropes burned off, but where the ropes had been, now he had stripes. And that’s why tigers got stripes,” the Joker nods to himself. “That’s why tigers got stripes,” he murmurs. “That’s why they got stripes.”

He starts humming again, but now the tune isn’t happy, although it is the same. It’s melancholic. Almost like weeping.

_Tick_

_Tick_

“Sometimes I think of him,” he whispers. “How he was marked. Maybe that’s why they’re so dangerous”

_Tick_

“Those ropes, the stripes. But then I remember they were dangerous before too”

_Tick_

“So maybe he was born that way”

_Tick_

“Maybe tigers are tigers because they’re tigers”

_Tick_

“Not because of the stripes”

_Tick_

“What do you think,”

_Tick_

“Batman?”

For Bruce Wayne, time does not stand still.

Because Bruce Wayne knows better.

For Bruce Wayne, time didn’t stop. The air didn’t halt. Sounds didn’t cease. For Bruce Wayne, a room full of people did not become a background scene, a girl falling out a window did not become a secondary matter, a pair of unpredictable eyes did not ground him, they didn’t make sense. For Bruce Wayne, laying on the street wasn’t liberating, a mirror to his own exhilaration was not relieving, the unknown wasn’t known. Bruce Wayne did not stand in a dark corner branded immobile by god knew what.

For Bruce Wayne, time didn’t stop still.

Time couldn’t stop still.

Because that meant there was chaos to give meaning to.

And Batman was not chaos. He was order.

He had to be.

Batman steps out of the dark.

| x |

The _bang_ that his face meeting the metal table makes is so loud he feel his ears ringing. Or maybe it was the impact, but whatever.

It’s starting.

“Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy. He can’t feel the next-”

The Joker can’t finish that thought because Batman’s fist is smacking down on his fingers. And Jolly did that hurt.

“See?” He finishes calmly, his head swirling. A smile threatened to slip off his lips.

The Joker had known Batman was there, for the entire time Jim had been interrogating him. He’d thought Batman would step out right away when Jim left. But oh no, Bats didn’t. He just stood there watching. And wasn’t that a pretty something to think about. His Bat watching him. But that wouldn’t work. They needed to talk. And he couldn’t talk to the silent stalky Batman. He needed to talk to the mad Batman. They needed to set the boundaries of their new game.

All games have boundaries. Guidelines. The Joker needs to figure this one out. He’s not much for planning, he’s more of the expontaneous type. Explosions are more fun when the time and place comes from the heart, as opposed to planning it before hand. But this was important, he couldn’t take this lightly.

This wasn’t just any other game.

“You wanted me, here I am,” the bat sits in from of him. In all his bat ears, and smooth cape, and black kevlar glory. Such presence. Even the gruff voice matches it. Though it is a tad fake, but the Joker could work with that. It would make it more fun. Pealing the onion layer by layer.

Okay, back to poking at him.

“I wanted to see what you’d do… and you didn’t disappoint. You let five people die. Then you let Dent take your place. Even to a guy like me, that’s cold.”

It had been infuriating, to be more exact. But that’s something for another time.

“Where’s Dent?” Batman growls.

The Joker nods to himself, ignoring the question, “those mob fools want you dead so they can go back to the way things were. But I know the truth: there’s no going back. You’ve changed things. Forever.”

Never. Never the same.

“Then why do you want to kill me?”

The high pitch laugh that bounces off the walls is hysterical. After a moment, the Joker's laughs are so hard he sounds like he's sobbing.

His bat might look good in that suit, but he isn’t as bright as the Joker thought he would be. To say… to suggest…

Jesus, he’s hilarious.

“Kill you? I don’t wanna kill you. What would I do without you? Go back to ripping off mob dealers? No. No. No. No”

_Designs_

Dark, bottomless eyes.

“You complete me”

Who was he before.

He doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t care.

He is whole.

He looks at Batman, and blue eyes meet black. God, black eyes. So dark he’s drowning.

_Perfect symmetry._

“You’re garbage who kills for money,” Batman says.

The Joker gives himself a moment to calm down. This is his bat. He can’t lash out at him. He’s too precious for that. He’ll make him see, he’ll make him understand.

They were both in this alone, but now they don’t have to be.

“Don’t talk like one of them, you’re not,” the Joker reminds him. “Even if you’d like to be. To them, you’re a freak. Like me. They just need you right now.” His gaze is almost soft, pitiful. His poor tiger, those ropes. The stripes. “But as soon as they don’t, they’ll cast you out. Like a leper. Their morals, their code; it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble.

But Batman is different. He’s so much more.

“They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. You’ll see- I’ll show you. When the chips are down these, uh, civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”

And the fire is there again. Just like it was the first time they met. When Batman saw. When he’d look, and didn’t like what was there.

Him.

Because they were one.

What hand dare seize thy fire?

Suddenly, the Joker’s collar is in Batman’s fists and he’s being swung to the nearest wall. His back collides painfully with the surface, he laughs.

“Where’s Dent?”

“You have all these rules, and you think they’ll save you?”

Batman punches him in the face, and the Joker could’ve sworn he heard his neck crack. Strong, so strong.

Yes, he was perfect.

“I have one rule,” Batman tells him. And Joker already knew that, that’s what he’s trying to test. How far their little game can go.

“Then that’s the one rule you’ll have to break to know the truth.”

Batman leans closer, his hand still grabbing Joker by the collar. Their air swims together, mingling into one, and oh how close they are. The Bat is right there. If he just leans forward…

And what shoulder and what eye,

Dare its deadly terror clasp?

“Which is?” Batman’s words are low and dangerous.

“The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. And tonight you’re gonna break your one rule.”

Or not. Which is fine either way. The Joker would win regardless.

“I’m considering it”

Some people live in a world of broken pieces. Where memories contradict each other, and words mix together. Some people’s worlds are broken. And it’s fine. Because the fragments that once were part of a whole hold truth of their own. And it’s fine. Because it is true. Because when parts are the only thing there are, parts are the only thing that are real. But some people live in a world of broken pieces, and sometimes those people tend to get lost. Asphyxiating in the fractions of fractions, lost in a world of their own creation. One they can’t escape. But sometimes, some rare, rare times, there appears a saving hand. That pulls them out of the world of broken pieces, and allows them to breath for a brief second again.

And in those brief moments, fragments find each other, words become phrases, phrases become sentences. And those pieces that held a truth of their own, tell a truth as one. Because, sometimes, two parts of a whole tell a better truth together than they do apart.

He was found.

“Tiger. Tiger. Burning bright,” the Joker chuckles, in realization, the words flowing out of his lips effortlessly. He looks at the bat, who’s watching him with something indescribable in his eyes. The Joker continues, the next words a murmur. For a moment, the Joker’s in awe.

“In the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Batman’s face hardens. The Joker just laughs. A fist meets his face.

“Where’s Dent?”

“In what distant deeps or skies, burn the fire of thine eyes?”

Batman punches him again, but the Joker just smiles, a streak of blood falling from his lips. He stumbles to the floor. His anger rising, Batman uses this opportunity to go over and lock the door. So Gordon doesn’t barge in and stops him from what will surely be beating up the Joker to a pulp.

Maybe he’ll break it.

“On what wings dare he aspire! What's the hand that dare seize the fire! And what shoulder and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart?”

Then Batman’s fists are on him again, every word coming from the Joker fueling his rage more. The Joker knew why, but he didn’t care. Everything was so clear, Batman was so close. And if he did kill him, it would just be a bonus.

He hoped he didn’t though. They had so much to do together.

“And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? And what dread feet?”

He would understand.

His ribs crack.

The Joker couldn't stop.

“What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp?”

He would see.

“When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see?”

His words were almost a whisper, a forceful sound within the pain he tried to ignore.

But it was okay.

It was Batman, after all.

“Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

It will all be worth the effort.

“Tiger. Tiger. Burning bright”

Because in a world full of pigs

“In the forest of the night”

In a world full of nothing

“What immortal hand or eye”

There is

“Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sooo, references: 
> 
> 1\. In Chapter 1, in the bank robbery scene, the Joker's mumbling is from the poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.
> 
> 2\. The tiger thing (which I swear I won't drag it any longer, it has fulfilled its purpose) is from the poem "The Tiger" by William Blake.
> 
> 3\. The story of how the tiger go his stripes is a Vietnamese folktale.
> 
> I'll keep telling ya'll the references as I go.
> 
> Also, I swear shit will pick up in the upcoming chapters. I know I've been inside their heads too much, but analyzing their characters is soooo fun and interesting. To all of you that have been commenting, thank you so much, those comments keep me going (validation is some scary shit, I be missing deadlines for college stuff all the time but I publish a chapter every weekend because of y'all. Ya'll out here doing the lord's work)
> 
> Oh, and for those who passionately love The Dark Knight, I apologize in advance. Shit will start deviating completely from canon in the upcoming chapters, and like, I'm really sorry if I massacre one of your favorite films.
> 
> It is all for the gay. The massacre has to be done.


	5. Part 5

When Bruce barges out of the interrogation room, a screaming James Gordon is waiting for him. Bruce does not engage him. He walks past the red-faced commissioner and the four other officers tagging along. He thinks he hears Gordon stop them from following him, but he can’t be too sure. He’s too deep inside his head right now.

_You’re just like me_

Bruce wanted to smash something. To scream. He wanted to get out of there. It had been a miracle he hadn’t killed the Joker, and a miracle Gordon hadn’t been able to break through the door. At that moment, he thinks he might’ve harmed him too. Bruce exits the MCU, where his motorcycle waits for him outside. He doesn’t have the time to be mad at the fact that his bat mobile is _gone, _the motorcycle being the only thing left of it, because a hand is on his shoulder and he’s turning around in the blink of an eye, ready to knock the person unconscious.

“We need you,” an out of breath Jim hurriedly says before Bruce could act on his reflexes. The previous ferocity is gone from Jim’s expression, now he just looks pleading.

“You didn’t want me on his case.”

“It’s not about him anymore, it’s about Dent”

The next words of refusal about to come out of Bruce’s mouth stop on their tracks. Jim is right, it is about Dent. They need to find him. For the city, for Rachel, for Bruce.

_Don’t talk like one of them, you’re not_

“Interrogating him is useless,” Bruce says. And it is true. “You should try setting your efforts on the search, he won’t talk.”

_Maybe tigers are tigers because they’re tigers, not because of the stripes_

“Will you be withdrawing from the case?” ‘won’t you help us?’ Is technically what the commissioner is asking.

_What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

“I’ll be looking”

| x |

_Don’t make me your only hope for a normal life_

Rachel stands there, steady hands holding the evidence of something she already knew. Scared, disgusted— those are things she knows she should be feeling. But she feels nothing, apart for a weird calmness and detachment. She looks down at what she holds in her hands, she doesn’t have to look through them to understand what’s going on, to understand why they’ve been hidden— no, not hidden. Kept, why they’ve been kept— in a cabinet next to Bruce’s bed.

God, did she know.

But she couldn’t care less right now. So she takes in a calming breath and puts the evidence back where she found it, closing the nightstand cabinet with a _thud. _Rachel sits at the edge of Bruce’s bed, and for a moment she just thinks.

_What the am I doing here?_

And she knew. And she would have asked the question out loud weren’t it for the feeling that she would start crying as soon as a word left her mouth. She’d been putting up so well, she can’t break down now.

Looking for whiskey, that’s what she was doing, like a fucking cocaine addict looking for a fix. She knew Alfred didn’t like Bruce to drink, and she knew about the bottle of whiskey Bruce thought nobody knew about. She’d ravaged through his room and

Nothing.

No whiskey, only the thing in the fucking cabinet.

_What am I doing here?_

She laughs but it comes out twisted and dry. She was in Wayne manor, because her mother was dead and the only thing close to family she had was Alfred and Bruce,

Bruce who kept the thing in the cabinet, close to his bed.

Rachel closes her eyes, and a sob escapes her. Fuck, she’s crying.

She’d loved him, she’d loved many people. Rachel Dawes has loved many people. She’d loved her mother, despite her bad taste in men. She’d loved some of those men, despite the bruises. She’d loved her father, despite his absence.

Rachel has loved many people, despite many things. And she’d loved Bruce.

She had.

Despite everything.

And it was exhausting. Loving people was so exhausting. But it wasn’t with Harvey. No, not with Harvey. With Harvey it was so easy, it was as easy as breathing. So, so easy.

She smiles, despite herself. And she’s crying again. Auditable sobs resonating in the room. Harvey, she loves Harvey so much. She would have left everything, she will leave everything, she would have left Bruce for him.

And now Harvey isn’t here.

She tries to calm herself down. She can’t be in this state when Bruce comes back. Because right now Bruce is her only chance. She’d talked to Gordon, as soon as she’d been informed Harvey never made it home. She told him she could be of use, with the investigation, the search, the interrogation. But Gordon had strictly refused, because she was personally involved with the victim. Who was Harvey, the victim was Harvey.

Jesus.

But then Gordon had told her not to worry. That they had Batman on the case. That they would find Harvey. That Batman would personally interrogate the Joker. And was that a relief. Because Rachel knew, with all of her being, that if there was anyone who could get the answer to where Harvey was out of the clown it would be Bruce. She doesn’t think about the thing in the cabinet. She can’t. Because Bruce is her only chance. Harvey’s only chance. And she trusts Bruce. She trusts him.

Her eyes trace back to the cabinet.

Before she could think anything else, the door to Bruce’s room is opening, and she would be ashamed of being found uninvited in someone else’s room weren’t for the fact that right now she just _didn’t give a fuck_. You get to do that when your fiancé is kidnapped by a serial killer madman.

But it’s Alfred.

“Miss Dawes,” he says, doing a small vow. The man has remained calm through the entirety of this whole ordeal. He was calm when Rachel had come knocking on the door with a far away look on her face, he was calm when she didn’t say anything for the entire time she had been there, he was calm when she went upstairs without a blink in his direction, and he was calm finding her here, an absolute wreck, sitting on Bruce’s bed. It was nice having someone who gave you the illusion of security.

“He’s here,” is the only thing Alfred says. And Rachel is out the door, running downstairs, not thinking on who _he _is, because no matter who it is, she needs to see him. Right now.

She finds Bruce in the kitchen, his head stuck inside the refrigerator. She pushes down the disappointment and incredible pain that _he_ wasn’t Harvey. Logically, she knew it wouldn’t be, but the last thing she is right now is logical.

“Bruce,” Rachel says, a bit out of breath. Bruce just takes his time taking the water jar out of the refrigerator. He closes the fridge and walks next to the sink, reaching for a cup.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Bruce replies, not looking at Rachel. Bruce replies, calmly filling the cup with water. Like Harvey isn’t missing, like he didn’t just interrogate the only person who knows where he is.

Rachel feels herself trying to even out her breathing. It’s picking up, and not because she ran here.

“Did he talk?” Is the only thing Rachel asks, ignoring Bruce’s previous words. The other just drinks his water, and after a few sips, he answers.

“No”

Silence.

Bruce is avoiding her gaze, he wants her to believe he’s looking at her, but he’s looking at her chin. And god if she didn’t know Bruce. God kill her, if she didn’t know Bruce.

“You won’t go back”

And it isn’t an accusation, but an observation.

“No”

Bruce puts the cup in the sink and places the water jar back in the fridge. He moves past Rachel and goes to the living room, picking up a book from the table and sitting on the couch. Rachel stands alone in the kitchen for a minute, before coming back to herself and hurriedly following him.

“You won’t go back again,” now it isn’t an observation. It is an accusation. Because he won’t go back, Bruce won’t go back. Rachel stands before him, Bruce reading his book like nothing is happening.

“I’ll be looking”

And that’s it. Anger shoots through Rachel, and she doesn’t think about anything else she says. Because Harvey is somewhere out there, god knows where, maybe dead, and Bruce is here— playing this game they’ve been playing for so long. And she can’t afford to play it right now.

"You won't go interrogate him again? Bruce! He's the only one that knows where Harvey is!"

"It's not my job Rachel!”

Silence again. Bruce is looking straight at her, wide eyed, with something in those eyes Rachel doesn’t care to interpret right now. He looks angry, but so is she. And if he thinks a shout is what will take for her to drop this, he’s wrong.

“I saw them,” she says. And she’s calm when she does so. She isn’t thinking about what she’s doing, what she’s saying. But is too late now.

"What?"

"The pictures"

Rachel can see the exact moment when Bruce freezes, and his reaction pushes her to keep going.

"I saw the pictures of the fucking corpses," she laughs, hysterically, nervously. She runs a trembling hand through her hair, “I- I went to your room to look for that stupid whiskey, and I found them, next to your bed. Next to your bed Bruce! Nicely kept inside a cabinet. What? Do you look at them before going to sleep? Do you like them?”

She looks at Bruce, but she isn’t looking at him, she’s looking at Harvey’s lifeless body, “You’re sick. You’re sick in the head, and you would rather let Harvey die in a ditch than fucking face it!”

And then she’s out, leaving Bruce alone. Just like he’s always been.

| x |

Two weeks pass, and Bruce searches everywhere for Harvey, with no luck. Gordon puts up the Bat signal every night for a week, Bruce doesn’t respond.

“What are you planning to do?” Alfred asks him. Bruce came from his nightly patrol two hours ago, and now he’s sitting in front of the computer in the bat cave, looking from cctv footage to cctv footage. Nothing. Is like Harvey disappeared off the face of the earth.

“Keep looking for him”

“If I may say so, sir. That doesn’t appear to be working”

Bruce rubs his eyes, he’s been at this for two hours. Two hours every fucking night. Together with the patrols, and the searching, he barely sleeps.

“That’s the only thing I can do”

Alfred doesn’t say anything, just looks at the footage on the computer that does not have Harvey in it. Bruce sighs.

“I can’t go, Alfred”

“I’m not telling you to. I’m merely suggesting to find out what Gordon needs from you. Start from there.”

Bruce turns to him, and he’s tired. So tired. The nightmares are back, and if he isn’t pushing Rachel out a window, he’s kidnapping Harvey, he’s cutting him up, he’s cutting and cutting and cutting—

_To them, you’re a freak. Like me._

“I know what he needs from me. He’s going to want me to interrogate him again”

Alfred’s eyes find his, and his eyes are so gentle. Like he understands everything, and he’s fine with it all.

“I can’t go back again,” Bruce whispers.

Alfred nods, “Perhaps, but perhaps you can. Perhaps you can and come out of it intact. What are you afraid of, master Bruce?”

_You’re sick in the head_

_You complete me_

_Tiger. Tiger. Burning bright._

“That I won’t be able to”

Alfred considers him for a minute, “But if you do, then you won’t have anything to be afraid of. And a man without fear is the closest thing to god.”

Bruce doesn’t know what Alfred wants to say with that. However, he can’t help it when the thought comes to him.

_But god is a murderer too_

| x |

That night, Bruce takes the pictures out of the cabinet. He looks at them. He tried to throw them away, after Rachel had left two weeks ago. But he hadn’t. And now he’s looking at them.He knows all the victims’ names, their ages, everything. He doesn’t know why he went over them so much. He looks at them, but he doesn’t look at the design.

Heart out, skin off.

He doesn’t think of it.

But he looks at them

_You’re sick in the head_

_Perhaps you can come out of it intact_

That night, Bruce doesn’t throw the pictures away. And the night after, he meets Gordon.

| x |

“We keep the dangerous ones in a separate wing. It is a precaution for their own, and everyone else’s, safety,” the doctor says, Bruce is barely hearing him. He wonders why the man feels the need to explain all of this to him, but Bruce keeps quiet. Batman is a figure of mystique, after all.

The man, who introduced himself as Dr. Jonathan Crane, keeps talking as they walk. Doors are banged on by the patients as they walk pass their quarters, and Bruce can’t help but relate the place to a prison. Just whiter. Everything’s white. Batman’s black suit makes him stand out like a sore thumb.

“Is that Batman?! Wow that’s Batman!” One of the patients shouts from the little barred window of his cell— room, not cell.

Dr. Crane ignores the shouting, but he scans the patients faces as if keeping them in mind.

“Commissioner Gordon told me about your proclivity to violence,” the doctor says, pushing up his glasses with his middle finger. He doesn’t look at Bruce as he addresses him, and Bruce is pretty sure the doctor doesn’t like him. “But that won’t be an issue. His room is separated in half by 2.3 millimeter thick laminated glass. Only me and the nurses can go in and out.”

They turn, and it’s a dead end hallway. A single door waiting for them at the end of it.

“There is a sliding food tray compartment, do not pass anything through it,” he looks down at the brown envelop in Bruce’s grasp. “Except, of course, whatever has been approved of downstairs. Do not touch the glass in any circumstances. There will be no guards accompanying you, as privacy was one of your requirements to see him. But everything will be recorded, without sound.”

They approach the door and stand before it, the doctor considers Batman for a minute, then he smiles, “I have to say, I didn’t think you would come. Gordon was incredibly annoyed when we took him in our custody, and more so when the patient denied any visits from anyone except Batman.” Bruce listens to what Dr. Crane says, but his eyes go to the door in front of them.

333

Dr. Crane clears his throat, “I wish you good luck in your interrogation. You have forty minutes.” Then Dr. Carne opens the door. And Bruce has to walk in.

Fuck.

The door closes behind him.

The room is just as the doctor said. Separated in half by a wall of glass, no windows. White everywhere.

Bruce doesn’t know what to do.

“Oh Johny, missed me already?” A familiar voice says. And holy shit, what the fuck is Bruce doing here. He doesn’t dare look to the other side of the room. But his eyes are moving on their own.

The Joker is sitting on the floor, crosslegged, with his back to the glass. There is a small bed in one corner, a toilet on the other, and a metal chair against the wall. A similar one on Bruce’s side of the room, which is facing the glass.

The Joker is still oblivious to his presence.

“Look, is not like I don’t enjoy our little chats. Which I don’t. But I might be more prone to tell you about my traumatizing childhood if you get me some pie. Relationships are about compromise, Johny.”

Bruce doesn’t respond. The Joker sighs. Then he turns around.

“Johny—”

Silence. The Joker’s eyes go wide when they meet Bruce.

“You’re not Johny,” he says calmly.

Bruce goes rigid. He’s not sure what to do. Or what to say. Because that’s not the Joker… that’s a guy. A normal guy. With blond hair, and blue eyes, and no make up in sight. And scars, big ugly scars forming an unnatural smile. But he barely notices them.

“I’m not Johny,” is the only thing he can say.

And then the Joker is smiling. And yeah, that’s the Joker.

“You can sit down, I won’t bite,” the Joker nods towards the chair on Bruce’s side of the room. It takes him a couple of seconds, but Bruce moves towards it and sits down. The Joker stands up, and gets his own chair. Placing it close to the glass, and sits in an imitation of Bruce.

They stay like that for a while.

“This is when you ask me about Dent”

“Are you going to answer?”

“That would be boring, wouldn’t it?”

He’s still smiling.

_You’re sick in the head_

_Perhaps you can come out of it intact_

The Joker’s face is purple and yellow on some places. _Bruises. _His hair is blonde, but with washed out green, and his clothes are white. Like the walls, like the bed, like the floor, like everything around him.

It doesn’t look right.

Bruce grips the envelope in his hand tighter. He came here for answers. But the Joker is smiling and looking at him. Looking at him intently, groundingly, curiously…

_You complete me_

“What will it take to make you talk?” The words are out before Bruce can stop them. And the clown is still staring at him. Bruce wonders if the Joker does everything with such devotion. Such concentration. Was it like that with his designs?

_You’re sick_

_What would I do without you?_

The Joker bats a dismissing hand, “Oh, it’s easy. It gets lonely in this padded hole. And Johny’s not much fun. Just talk to me. No yelling. No fists. And I’ll tell you.”

He licks his scars before raising his eyebrows, remembering something. “Ah, and honesty. Be honest and I’ll tell you.”

“You’ll tell me,” Batman repeats, doubtfully.

“I’ll tell you,” the Joker nods, earnestly.

They don’t say anything for a while. Bruce could do this. For Rachel. For Harvey. It’s not like talking is such a hard thing to do.

And that’s the only chance they’ve got.

He tells himself that’s why he’s accepting.

“Fine”

Silence again. Bruce feels his palms starting to sweat, and his heartbeat picking up. And what in the sweet chocolate chip hell is wrong with him.

_A lot of things_

“Now, come on. Start,” a voice says. Bruce realizes that yeah, he was talking to the Joker. The Joker was talking to him.

“Start what?”

The Joker’s smile softens, and his eyes look… fond, they look fond. “Talking, you can start talking.”

Bruce, on the other hand, cannot think of anything to say. At all. His mind is completely blank.

“Jesus Bats, you can break three of my ribs but you can’t start a conversation”

“I can”

“Then do it”

Bruce fishes for anything, anything that isn’t just blankness inside his head. Something to talk about. Anything.

333

“You’ve got a cool room number”

He doesn’t face palm himself right then and there because his hands don’t seem able to move. He totally would have if they did.

He expects the Joker’s high pitch laughs to start bouncing off the walls, or a giggle, or mocking words. Instead, the Joker hums in agreement.

“Yeah, three hundred and thirty three. Three three’s.”

Bruce is more than a little dumbfounded that it actually worked. After that, his mouth seems to run on its own.

“Like the three wishes,” he says, before he could stop himself.

The Joker looks up at him, and he grins, like a challenge. “Or the three guesses”

“The three bears,” Bruce continues. He doesn’t realize he's started to smile as well.

“The three little pigs”

“The holy trinity”

The Joker frowns at that one, “Well obviously. That one was too easy, it doesn’t count.”

“Easier than the three little pigs?” Batman asks, because really. The Joker was cheating.

“Yes. Seriously Bats— the Father, the Ghost and the Holy Spirit. Resurrection on the third day. Really, there can’t be a three without a god behind it. Too easy.”

Bruce looks at the Joker. And in that moment they weren’t in a mental hospital, he wasn’t Batman and the Joker wasn’t Joker. He was just there, and his thoughts were too. And there was no reason for him to restrain them.

_What are you afraid of, master Bruce?_

“Is that how you think of yourself?” Bruce asks the clown, who’s still looking at him. Do his eyes ever leave Bruce as they’re talking? “As a god?”

The Joker laughs, but is controlled, almost unlike himself. “Do you?”

Bruce’s mind goes back to an apple replaced by a heart, a soul taken out of a chest. He thinks offaces robbed of skin. And apples. He thinks of apples.

“Is that my design?” Joker asks, and he isn’t smiling anymore. He’s leaning forward on his chair. He’s serious. He wants to know.

It’s almost like he doesn’t know his own design.

“No,” Bruce answers.

And whatever else the Joker is going to say is cut off by a door opening. A guard steps in, only looking at Batman as he speaks.

“Your time is up”

Whatever trance Bruce was in is cut off as well. He stands up, quickly, still holding the envelope. He makes to leave. Right now. He needs to leave now. But the Joker’s voice stops him.

“Harvey isn’t on the ground,” he says. Then he stands up and goes to lay on his bed. Like everything is alright with the world.

Batman rushes to Gordon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta admit, the Joker's and Batman's conversation was completely self indulgent. Planned, needed for the plot, but self indulgent nonetheless.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry I didn't publish a chapter last weekend, college be like that. But I decided to procrastinate this weekend in favor of reading, so I might write an extra chapter. I feel like I owe ya'll. (Please someone help me, I can't be procrastinating like this)
> 
> Oh, and *gasps* Crane is still an employed doctor who's low key crazy-- told ya'll I would be murdering canon.
> 
> And by the way, I never liked Rachel. Just thought I should put that out there. So if I accidentally kill her, is just a coincidence ( lol I'm lying, I got plans for her character. But the idea is deadass oh so tempting.)


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left y'all a link somewhere on the text. When you get to it, click it. Otherwise things might be more confusing than they should.

Batman visits Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane again, ironically, three days after his first visit.

He does not look at his surroundings as he barges through the door.

“We can’t find him”

“Well, that says a lot more about, ah, you and your people’s competence than it does of the clue I gave you. How’s good ol’ Jim holding up?”

The Joker’s laying down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He answers Bruce without even spearing a glance his way.

Bruce pointedly ignores the question.“We’ve looked in tunnels, abandoned subway stations,” he feels his voice hardening, his pose straightening, and he walks closer to the glass separating him and the psychopathic maniac. “You said he would be underground.”

The man on the other side of the glass just hums. And it’s that tune again.

“I never said that. I said he wasn’t on the ground. Doesn’t mean he’s under it,” the Joker is still looking up at the ceiling. He stretches up his arm, as if trying to reach up to the sky. But there is no sky. Only white walls, and white beds, and white ceilings, and white and white and white. Only white and that humming.

_What in the hell is it?_

“Bats, do you know about the soul of cowards?”

“I won’t be playing your games”

“Though earth and man were gone, and… suns… suns and universes ceased to be. And thou were left alone. Every existence would exist in thee,” the Joker frowns up at the roof. “Whatwas the other part?”

Bruce scowls, and his fists tighten. He knew this would be a waste of time. He’d told them. He’d told everyone. Gordon, Rachel.

_You’re sick in the head_

But nobody would listen.

_Perhaps you can come out of it intact_

Three days ago, Bruce had run to Gordon with a new piece of information on Dent’s whereabouts. And Bruce had been almost convinced then, that maybe there was hope. For whom, he does not know. But maybe there was. And then they had looked. And he remembered that no, there was no hope. He was just wasting his time. Talking to a crazy person. Talking about three’s.

_Three hundred and thirty three_

Bruce wouldn’t be that calm again.

He stands close to the glass, glaring at the Joker, who is still laying on his bed looking up at the roof. The Joker’s other arm goes up, and his fingers reach. And they reach. Up. And up.

And that humming.

But there is no sky.

“I won’t be playing your games,” Batman says again. The Joker does not look at him. “So you either talk or—”

“Or what?” The Joker asks, both arms up, reaching at nothing. “You can’t hurt me, that glass’ too thick. Even for you, big guy. You won’t kill me. You have nothing to threaten me with.” His eyebrows knit together, and he asks in a small voice, “I wonder what you’ll do now. Now that you’re more guarded.”

He then frowns harder. “It was something about rooms,” he nods. “Yes, it was about rooms.”

The Joker starts humming again.

And then it comes to Bruce. That tune.

_Why do birds suddenly appear_

_Every time you are near?_

“Did you kill him?” Bruce asks. His voice is harsh even to his own ears.

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_

“Did you want me to?”

The room is quiet. The only thing audible being the shouts from patients across the hall. Even with the door closed, they’re clear as day.

Bruce doesn’t answer.

“Tell me Bats, the next part. The souls of cowards. The room,” the Joker looks lost. He wants to know. “There is no room for… for…”

"Death" 

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The shouts from outside now seem to not enter the space. Now they’re both alone. Although they’d always had been.

_Why do stars fall down from the sky_

_Every time you walk by?_

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_

“There is not room for Death, nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—Thou art Being and Breath. And what Thou art may never be destroyed.”

When Bruce finishes, the Joker is smiling.

Slowly his arms go down to his chest, and they rest there. Because there is no sky. Only white.

_On the day that you were born the angels got together_

_And decided to create a dream come true_

The Joker sits up and gets off the bed, smile still playing at his lips. As he approaches the glass, Bruce avoids his eyes. He looks at his chin.

_So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair_

_of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue_

“What are you really here for Bats? Surely it can’t be to hit on me with those killer lines. Which, by the way, are working,” his smile stretches more, and he regards Bruce with his stare. The Joker seems elated. “You said you wouldn’t be playing my games.”

“I’m here to play mine”

“Which are?” He says, eying the brown envelope Bruce holds in one of his hands. Bruce takes a deep breath.

“I’ll tell you your design. And you tell me exactly where Harvey is. No clues. A straight answer.”

The smile immediately drops off the Joker’s face. “How do I know you’ll be telling me the truth?”

“They’re your designs, you’ll know”

_That is why all the girls in town_

_Follow you all around_

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_

The Joker thinks for a minute, before nodding. “Okay”

Bruce thinks the Joker would sit down for this. But he stands there, patiently, looking at Bruce.

“What’s my design?”

And this is it. The moment Bruce has been waiting for ever since he thought on doing this to get the answer to where Harvey is. It’s simple. Just four words. Just say four words and this will be over with.

“[The Son of Man](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Son_of_Man). You modeled the murders after it.”

As he waits for the Joker’s reaction, Bruce feels a rush go through him. And he realizes, for some weird reason, that he’s been waiting for this. Way before he ever met the Joker. Ever since the first murder. Where he’d seen the corpse on tv and just_ known. _He’d been waiting for this for the entire year he avoided doing anything about the Joker. And now he’s here. And he’s ecstatic to know that what he’d seen was true. The design.

The Joker’s pensive face does not change. “That’s not my design,” he says calmly.

That is not, to say the least, what Bruce was expecting.

“I might not know my own design. But I know it’s not that. Come on, I know you can do better than this Batsy”

“That’s your design”

“It’s not”

Silence.

The Joker’s eyes go down to the envelope again, and he smirks.

“Why don’t you try for realsies this time, uh? Open that and look at them properly. I’m sure Dent is worth that much effort, at least.”

The envelope in Bruce’s hand becomes a heavy weight under the Joker’s scrutiny. Bruce had forgotten he’d brought it. Gordon had pushed it to his chest plate, along with a cassette recorder, three days ago, when Bruce had agreed on interrogating the Joker again.

_Get him to confess about the murders. We need to appease the press. Even if he doesn’t tell you about Dent, at least we’ll have that._

Bruce had disposed of the cassette recorder. But he’d brought the pictures of the murders.

He didn’t know why.

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_

Bruce takes the envelope and opens it, taking out a random picture out of the twelve. He tries to ignore the Joker’s eyes on him, but he can feel them. Drinking him in. Eager. Analyzing. Bruce’s heart flutters.

“Who is it?” The Joker asks after Bruce looks at the picture for a considerable moment.

“Karen Adams”

The Joker’s fourth kill. Bruce had memorize all their names. Rachel had been right about something. Bruce did look at them before going to sleep. Sometimes.

The body in the picture lays on white snow. Her blood painting it of red. She’d been found in wide display on a park. It’d been snowing the day before.

The Joker makes an acknowledging sound. “I took my time with that one. Pretty cold day. But it’s one of my best ones.”

Bruce barely hears anything, he’s already submerging himself in the image. In a way he hadn’t before. Yes, he looked at the pictures sometimes. But it was always with restraint. Because he knew, there was always a line he couldn’t cross.

But he couldn’t see that line right now.

After all, he had to do this right. For Harvey.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

“Female. Thirty five years old. Mother of two,” Bruce starts. “You killed her like you did all the others. Heart out, skin off.”

Why do stars fall down from the sky?

The Joker nods, “Yes, I know that already. What else?” His patience seemed to be growing thin.

Bruce couldn’t care less.

“She was middle class. They were all middle class”

Bruce sees it. Karen Adams walking down the park on her high heels, her white dress. Oh. White. Like the snow. A pleasant coincidence. White. Like the walls. Like the bed. Like the ceiling. An annoying kind of white. The kind he can fix.

Why do stars fall down from the sky?

Why?

Why do they fall?

“People around her describe her as full of herself, that she didn’t take care of her kids. They were always with a babysitter”

And then Bruce is there. In that park. Strangling the woman unconscious and taking out a knife. Warm blood covers his hands. Her white dress. The snow. And is right. Everything about this is right. Right like she isn’t. Right like the white is not. He’ll make them. Make them see. He struggles for a bit, but he gets it out. Her heart. It isn’t beating anymore. But it’s okay. He’ll feel it beating on the next one. He puts the heart on the snow and starts skinning her face. Proper. It’s only proper.

Bruce’s breathing quickens, and he drops the pictures except for Karen Adam’s. He’s holding that one. While the others cover the floor with gruesome imagery. Bruce doesn’t notice it.

They fall.

They fall to enlarge his kingdom.

Who.

Who are you?

Who.

Who is he?

To be…

_Close to you_

“You took out her heart first,” Bruce’s voice is shaky, but not because of fear. Or disgust.

Because of excitement.

“Why?” And that’s the Joker. Bruce almost forgot that he was there. He doesn’t look at him though, he just answers the question.

“Because it is… the forbidden fruit. The apple in her eye. It blinds her. She can’t see. None of them can.”

“Why can’t they see?”

“Because the fruit of right and wrong is in the way”

Bruce looks down at his work. It’s perfect. She looks like an angel. Maybe they’ll see this time.

Who with such power

Who with such vision

Can see past the visible

And see more.

Bruce stops looking at the master piece in favor of looking at the man in front of him. Black eyes meet blue. And the Joker is smiling.

The Joker can see him.

And there’s no disgust nor fear in those eyes. Only pure and utter adoration.

_Tiger. Tiger. Burning bright_

_In the forests of the night,_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?_

“You’re not god,” Bruce realizes. “No, you’re not god. But you save them. You elevate them. You make them _more.”_

He takes his hand and places it flat on the glass, he can’t feel it, for he’s wearing protective gloves. But he imagines the glass is cold. And when the Joker takes his hand and puts it against his own, only glass separating them, Bruce imagines that it’s warm. Because it is.

“They’re blind, they’re pigs. But you save them. You take off their masks, take their souls out of their chests, and place them somewhere nothing can touch them. Not even death. They’re more than that— they’re an idea. Your idea. They’re whatever you want them to be.”

Bruce sees a blind man in a pristine suit and a bowler hat.

“They’re your design. And you’re not god. Because there isn’t one."

There is no sky.

"There is no god, but there is you,” Bruce looks at the Joker, who seems capable of breaking through the glass to get to Bruce at any moment now. And thinks that maybe it’s alright. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe Bruce doesn’t need a god, as long as the man in front of him is there.

_You’re sick in the head_

_You complete me_

_What would I do without you?_

_You’re not one of them_

_You’re not_

“You wanted to make them see. But they can’t. And you would feel lost. But you don’t. Because you know I can see you. That I can see the entirety of you and understand. You know that I’m angry that I do. You know that I’ll try to fight you back. But you’re fine with it. Because you found me.”

I am him.

That day, the Joker tells Bruce where Harvey is. That day, Bruce promises himself to never see the Joker again. And that day, the Joker breaks out of Arkham Asylum.

The next day, some people die.

But if you ask Joker, they die for the greater good. Because, after all, he has to court his bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this fic has feet of its own. I had the whole storyline planned to a t and it just takes its own direction whenever it wants to. But I let it do its thing, it's easier.
> 
> Now, the references. 
> 
> -Painting "The Son of Man" by Rene Magritte
> 
> \- Poem "Last Lines" by Emily Bronte
> 
> -Song "Close to you" by the Carpenters (love that song)
> 
> If ya'll read until here, please leave a comment. Validation is a great incentive when one has writer's block.


	7. Part 7

James Gordon is… too old for this shit.

“Is that a—”

“A tiara, sir”

“A tiara,” Gordon echoes, not entirely believing his eyes. The pink _tiara_ on the corpse’s head basically waving hi at him.

Yeah. Too old for this shit.

He’s been looking at the crime scene for three minutes straight. It’s disgusting, one of the new guys threw up as soon as he entered the room. But James Gordon is still staring at the body.

He has the vague recollection that he’d met the guy before.

When he’d brought Batman into the asylum to interrogate the Joker, there had been a guy. Bob, Gordon’s pretty sure his name was Bob. Bob the security guard, who was assigned to guard the outside of the door where the Joker had been kept. Bob. Bob was sitting where the Joker had been sitting, just a few hours ago. Bob is sitting in the Joker’s cell. Guts pooling on the floor, lacerations in his mouth, with a… a pink tiara on his head.

Too old.

Detective Ramirez comes and stands next to Gordon, handing him a paper cup. Gordon takes it, praying to every god that the cup is filled to the brim with tequila. It’s black coffee. He really doesn’t need to be more awake for this. Rubbing a hand through his face, he heads out of the room. He needs a breather. But Ramirez can’t take a cue and follows him out into the white hallway as well. People are coming in and out of the murder scene, the forensics team are doing their thing, the asylum is a mess. And Gordon just wants to die.

“How’s Dent?” He asks her, because why not. He’s pretty sure he’s growing white hairs out of his ass by now. What is one or two more.

“Conscious. No serious injuries,” the detective leans on the wall, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. The lieutenant would normally chastise her for it. But not today. They have a fucked up, newly found, district attorney in the hospital, an on the loose psychopath, a group of mentally ill patients that have been freed, and a tiara on a corpse. Ramirez can light as many cigarettes as she wants. “Evidence of torture,” Ramirez states, her tone dimer.

“Is he talking yet?”

“No. The girlfriend showed, didn’t even look her way”

They don’t say anything. Just Gordon drinking his coffee and Ramirez smoking her cigarette. The lieutenant has been doing this for a while. A long while. But he can safely say that this situation right now has been one of his biggest fuck ups. If not the biggest. He didn’t think the Joker was going to be such a threat, at least compared to the mob. But Gordon was clearly wrong. And now he won’t be able to sleep knowing he hasn’t caught him, for good.

It’s Gordon’s fault all of this happened.

Ramirez looks at him and sighs. She knows him too well. “Gordon, it’s not your fault. How would you know that as soon as he told Batman where Harvey was he would just up and leave? We didn’t know he had people on the inside.”

“He wanted to be caught, and I just played along his little plan and caught him. It’s that simple.”

Gordon can see the frown forming on the detective’s face. “He wanted to be caught,” she repeats, dubiously. As if the idea never crossed her mind. “Then why wait weeks before escaping. Why not free the patients at the beginning?”

Gordon had asked himself that same thing, he could only come up with one logical conclusion. It was just a theory, but might as well tell her, she is the detective.

“He wanted to interact with Batman.” Why the Joker wanted to do that, Gordon has no idea. But right now he’s regretting not having recorded those conversations. Gordon shouldn’t trust the vigilante so whole heartedly like he does.

But he still does.

The detective nods, as if she understands. As if she understands why a criminal would want to have a conversation with Batman. As if that makes sense.

“Did he say anything before leaving?” Ramirez asks, in a tone that suggests that she’s referring to Batman. Tone that suggests she doesn’t agree with Gordon giving Batman free reign— like he does. Gordon doesn’t dignify that attitude with an attitude of his own, because they couldn’t have done this alone, they can’t do this alone. They need Batman. Ramirez should acknowledge this and cut Gordon a break.

Still he answers. “He looked at the scene before saying there wasn’t much he could do. He left ten minutes before you got here.”

She nods again. She takes a drag off her cigarette, “I don’t like him.”

“I know”

“I’ll arrest him when this is over”

“I know”

“Good”

They never do find out where the hell the tiara came from.

| x |

Bruce sits on the leather chair, head laying back and his eyes closed. The chair’s an old, old thing. It was his mom’s favorite. Bruce breaths in deep, his fingers on the arm rest moving. Up and down. Tapping.

Tap

Tap

Tap

Almost a rhythm, but not quite. It’s off. Bruce knows it’s off. But he can’t find it in himself to care.

Tap

Tap

Tap

Tap

His mom used to love this library, the only place in the manor one could find her in. And she would sit on this chair and read. She would read for hours on end. On this very chair. His mom loved the library. God, how he missed her sometimes.

Tap

tap

Back then, Bruce used to sit with her, and pretend to read. At the time he didn’t like reading. But he did it. He pretended to. Just to have something to do with her. So they could do something together.

tap

He used to just stare at her, sometimes. How her blonde hair danced against the light. How she scrunched up her nose when she got too into what she was reading. And they sat in the old leather chair that wasn’t that old back then. And she would scrunch up her nose and read, and Bruce would sit on her lap and pretend to. While he felt her hand go through his hair, while he looked at her instead.

TAP

tap

tAp

Tap

Then she got shot in the head. And Bruce never stepped foot in the library again.

Tap

The tapping stops, and Bruce opens his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling.

It’s white. God is it white. Bruce realizes he doesn’t like white. There’s so many colors, why. Why white.

_I long to be_

_Close to you_

His mom had loved that song. Yes, his mom loved reading. And she loved music. Soft music.

White. Harvey had looked white when they found him. Like a ghost. A ghost who was kidnapped and thrown inside a cabin Cruiser, not too far off from shore.

When the Joker had told him, Bruce had wanted to laugh.

He almost did.

_Harvey isn’t on the ground_

When they’d found him, tied up to a chair. Bruce couldn’t seem to look away from unimportant things. Like Harvey’s missing finger nails. Or how one of his ears wasn’t there. There had been more important things to do at the time, like making sure Harvey wasn’t dead. Or arresting the guy who had been keeping Harvey kidnapped.

Bruce makes a mental note to visit the hospital tomorrow.

He takes his gaze away from the ceiling and directs it to a specific book shelf. The one by the window. It’s old too, just like the chair. Maybe more so. And Bruce hasn’t been in this room for years, but he remembers where everything is.

He forces his gaze away from that spot.

That’s not why he’s here. He’s not here for that. He’s here to relax, change his surroundings a bit. Today was a long day. He’s not here for _that_. He’s not. But his eyes seem to have a life of their own, and they go back to that shelf.

Bruce stands up.

His strides are careful, measured, as if someone might be watching him. But there’s no one there. Only Bruce in a room full of old books.

Bruce stops right in front of the shelf. The one he told himself he wouldn’t look at. The one he’s now looking at. His hands move on their own, his eyes do too, as he scans the books’ titles. Suddenly, his hands halt on one. It’s big, and old. Like everything in the damn room. And Bruce takes a minute to tell himself that this is fine. He just wants to read. He hasn’t read in a while.

He takes the book, dust dancing from its pages to the air. And through the dim lights of the room, its title stares back at him:

_A Treasury of Classic Poetry_

| x |

Bruce isn’t surprised by much lately. He hadn’t even been surprised by Harvey’s physical state when they finally found him. However, Bruce _was_ surprised when Gordon had gotten off the phone, just as they assisted Harvey into an ambulance, and said,

_The Joker has seemed to have escaped Arkham. He took ten patients. Killed a guard._

He wasn’t expecting that.

Bruce had thought everything was over. He’d thought he’d never have to see the Joker again. But then he found himself being dragged by a very mad Gordon back to Arkham. And then he was back at the Joker’s cell, looking at a dead body, with a pink tiara on its head.

The sight that met him is one Bruce doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. The man had been posed into a sitting position, in the chair the Joker used to occupy. The corpse’s eyes were still open. Unseeing, dead eyes staring straight at nothing. An upside down frown had been carved into its face. Intestines were out and about, decorating the floor at its feet. Right next to the [triquetra](http://symboldictionary.net/?p=159) drawn in blood.

It was a nauseating sight, for anyone with a right head on their shoulders.

For Bruce it was

Cute.

And when the thought popped up in his head, Bruce didn’t have the energy to be disgusted at himself. Or to deny that the thought was there. So, when Gordon had looked at him like his puppy had been kicked, waiting for Bruce to do some sort of magic trick and get this all fixed, Bruce only shrugged and told him there was nothing he could do. Before Gordon could ask for his help, Bruce left. He went straight home, where he didn’t say a word to Alfred. And went to the room that hadn’t been opened in a long time, where he sat in the chair he thought he would never sit in again.

Where he opened up a book about poetry and read. Pointedly not thinking about the lovely body left just for him in a psychiatric cell.

With a pink tiara on its head.

| x |

His killings come from the heart. Or gut. Whatever you wanna call it. He doesn’t think, he just… does. The Joker just does. And his killings come out of it. And they’re messy. And ugly. And _free_.

His killings are free.

Like everything should be.

But there was a moment in time when he’d… doubted. He’d doubted. The Joker isn’t one to doubt, but he did then. Because they didn’t get it.

And, maybe, if— if They didn’t get it. Maybe, maybe there was nothing to get.

And he doesn’t panic. No. No, no, no, no. The Joker doesn’t panic. But a small part of him did back then. Because. Because if there is nothing to get, then, then the Joker’s just

nothing.

He doesn’t panic, but a small part of him did back then. It did.

And then he found Batman.

And then it didn’t.

Because the Joker realized that he was— chaos. The Joker is chaos. The Joker is chaos, but a chaos with meaning.

The Joker found his meaning.

The Joker found his Batman.

And the Joker could play. He could unleash himself without being afraid of

Disappearing.

And the Joker could laugh, without being afraid of

Dissipating.

And everything would be alright because. Because Batman was there. Because Batman wouldn’t kill him. Batman would save him.

Batman had touched the glass.

Batman had touched_ him_.

But is not that easy.

And before everything can be as it should be. The Joker knows there’s something that he has to do. It isn’t enough for him to just put his hand against the glass.

He has to reach through it.

The Joker _will_ reach through it. The Joker will reach through the glass and… and

Save Him.

Yes. The Joker will save him.

The Joker will save Batman.

Even if it kills him.

That

That is his design.

| x |

The first time Alfred sees him, he doesn’t say anything. The second, he keeps quiet as well. The fifth, however…

“What are you doing master Bruce?”

Bruce looks up, seemingly unaware of Alfred walking in the room. His fingers gently hold a page of the _thing _Alfred has avoided addressing for a couple of weeks now. If it was anyone else, this wouldn’t be such a big deal. But it is Bruce we’re talking about.

“Uhm. Reading?”

Well, Alfred can see that. Perhaps he didn’t form his question correctly.

“What I meant to say is, since when do you read?"

“If you were anyone else, I would feel offended by that Alfred”

“But I am not anyone else”

“Indeed you aren’t”

Bruce’s eyes trace back to the thing— the book. And he favors the page over answering Alfred’s question for a couple of seconds. Master Bruce has been… relaxed these last couple of weeks. And Alfred’s happy for him, he really is. All he wants is for Bruce to be at peace.

But he hasn’t put that book down.

And it would be fine, that Bruce finds time in between fighting crime and attending an entire company to indulge in things such as reading. It would be fine. If it weren’t for the fact that a murder has been happening every week, and a very tortured Harvey is still in the hospital.

And the only thing Bruce has done is read every time he can.

Alfred wants to feel happy for him, he really does…

“I was an English Literature major, you know,” Bruce points out, still not looking up from his book.

Alfred nods. “I know, I was the who suggested it. But I haven’t seen you with a book in your hands since,” Alfreds gestures at nothing, “since this vigilante thing happened.”

Bruce hums and turns a page. “Maybe I just missed it.”

“Maybe”

And that’s the end of that conversation. Alfred doesn’t mention it again. As he doesn’t mention about Bruce tuning into the news every Friday. As if waiting for a gift to pop up on the screen.

After all, reading is not a bad habit.

| x |

“Martin, er, what’s wrong with him?”

That is, if Martin may say so himself, a question with a very extensive answer. And despite that, the only thing he can think of is how nice it feels to be called by his real name and not ‘Martini’ or ‘Jose.’ At least one good thing comes from having new recruits.

“He’s on Shakespeare today,” he murmurs in the new guy’s ear. Because that is simpler than explaining everything that’s wrong with the boss. Or what a Shakespeare day means. For them.

The man in question paces back and forth, the new recruits, some of the old, and Martin waiting for his instructions. He called them over, today. It’s been weeks since the boss got the ten out of the nut house, and he hasn’t given them a single job. Meaning that the crazies have energy they need to disperse of. Meaning that maybe today will be that day.

Martin hopes it is, otherwise he’s afraid he’ll get killed by one of his fellow “partners in crime.” Jesus, Martin is just here for the money.

The boss is pacing back and forth, mumbling. He hasn’t looked at them since they’ve gotten here.

The new guy next to Martin bumps his shoulder. “What does it mean, when he’s on Shakespeare?”

Martin keeps his voice low when he answers. “Before, it just meant that he was mad. Now it just means Batman’s ignoring him.”

Which is worse.

The new guy just seems more confused now. Martin wishes he was still that ignorant.

The boss stops pacing, and his eyes trace from the floor back to them. He holds a piece of glass in his hand and Martin doesn’t know why. But he’s stopped asking questions a long time ago.

“Oh, you’re here. I didn’t see ya there,” the boss smiles. Martin’s been working for him for almost a year and it’s still… scary.

But money, he’s here for the money.

“I’m glad you could make it. Uhm, how to start this. Our prison break the other day was fantastic, give yourselves a round of applause.” The boss starts clapping, and the others reluctantly start to too. But before they could get too much into it, he cuts them off.

“But, ah, some people don’t think so. And some people are… doubting our abilities and, ignoring us,” his grip on the piece of glass tightens, and bloods start dripping from it to the floor.

Way worse.

“So, I’ve devised a plan to get their attention back. And sure, some of you may die. But that is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

That unnatural, overstretched smile returns.

Did Martin say way worse already?

And that’s how he finds himself, with ten asylum patients, breaking into a hospital. The boss mumbling about _hark, hark the lark singing at heaven’s gates._

And some of them do die. But at the boss’ hand.

It was a Shakespeare day.

| x |

The Joker doesn’t make plans. He just _does_ things.

Now, that those things turn out perfectly fine, well, that’s just a coincidence.

They, on the other hand, _they_ make plans. Their whole life’s a plan. But the Joker knows better. He knows there’s nothing he can control. And so,

He just does.

And he watches them. In their little worlds. Going around in circles in their

Little lives.

Not knowing

That they’re mere ants

In the midsts of nothing.

In the midsts of everything.

And that there isn’t anything that happens

That they have a say over.

The Joker doesn’t make plans.

Having said that, the fact that he’s here. In a hospital. Dressed as a nurse. That wasn’t a plan. He’d told his men it was, but he had no idea what he was doing here. However, there was a problem that needed solving. A really, really bad problem.

His Bat was ignoring him.

That the Joker hasn’t bombed the city yet is a miracle.

He’s practicing on his self control. He thinks that’s something his Bat might appreciate.

But the ‘ignoring’ thing? That had to be fixed.

Like right now.

And so, through his “practice” of “self control,” something told the Joker to go to the hospital.

Call it a feeling.

Or a voice.

Same thing.

The Joker opens the door to the room. He thinks this is the right one. Jose had told him this was it, before one of the new ones shot an old lady in the face. And poor Jose threw up.

Now the hospital is being evacuated.

What a bunch of sissies.

When he opens the door, there’s no one there. Except, of course, of Harvey strapped to a bed. The Joker smiles. He was half hoping the annoying girl would be here. But it’s easier if she isn’t.

He’ll get to her eventually.

As he gets closer to the bed, the Joker realizes his men did a fine job. Harvey looks dead. Oh no, but is worse than that. Harvey’s alive. Harvey’s alive and Harvey knows it. Really knows it. And it would only take a push to drive him where the Joker wants him right now.

The Joker doesn’t remember telling his men to torture him, but that will certainly makes this easier.

See? No planning, just coincidence.

“Oh, Harvey, Harvey. What has become of you?”

The Joker takes a stool out of the corner of the room and places it next to the bed. He straddles it. Harvey just blinks, dead eyes staring straight at nothing. Is like the Joker isn’t even there.

The Joker would’ve thought that it would take more than mere torture techniques to break a man like Harvey. As it turns out, the Joker will have to keep such high standards for Batman.

The Joker looks at his watch. He’ll have to hurry up, is just a matter of time before the police shows up.

“Uhm, you know Harvey? I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us. I was in Gordon’s cage when you were abducted. It’s really not my fault that you’re here.”

No reaction.

Ugh, he’ll really have to go all out on this one, won’t he?

The Joker puts his elbows in the soft cushion of the bed, taking one of Harvey’s hands in his. The man doesn’t react. It’s like he’s lost inside his own head. Like he’s not really there. The Joker notices the lack of nails, and squeezes. Still no reaction.

“My men messed you up really badly, uh?” A soft breeze comes through the half-opened window. The wig the Joker’s wearing itches. How do women do it? The Joker ignores the itch and leans closer to the body on the bed.

“But I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” he says. Almost caringly. Sweetly. He caresses the hand he’s holding. “I’m sure you’ve had it worse.”

The Joker can hear birds singing from outside. It is rather early. He leans closer still, so close he’s right where Harvey’s ear is supposed to be, and he whispers.

“Tell me Harvey, do you miss it? Your daddy’s nightstick?”

Harvey’s eyes turn to him.

And it’s pretty easy after that.

| x |

He’s looking for them. But he can’t find them. He can’t ever find them. He’ll spend his entire life looking, looking for something that isn’t there. And when he finds them, is just to watch them die. Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And there they are.

This time, his mother’s smiling at him. Those blonde curls. That warm smile. And his dad, the proudest expression on his face. Like that time Bruce had memorized the entire multiplication table of nine. Or like the time he’d fallen. When he’d fallen inside that well. And this father had asked,

Bruce, why do we fall?

And Bruce had answered,

So we can learn to pick ourselves up.

And his dad had been proud.

So proud.

And now he was getting shot.

And so was his mom.

And it was raining

White pearls.

And the guy had smiled. He had smiled at Bruce.

And Bruce had smiled back.

Because he couldn’t move.

Bruce couldn’t ever, ever move.

He was forever frozen.

So Bruce killed a bat.

When Bruce wakes up, he does so with a start. Cold sweat covers him. And the first thing he sees is the screen he hadn’t turned off before going to sleep, that read

_Harvey Dent disappears from hospital after criminal intrusion_

| x |

Turns out Harvey hadn’t disappeared, he had escaped. And somewhere along the line, he’d burned half his face. By the looks of it intentionally.

Bruce doesn’t exactly know how it happened. In the future he will blame it on his mind being somewhere else as he went doing his rounds around the city. But somehow, at one moment, he was chasing this robber, and the next he was waking up in a warehouse. Completely tied. A half-burned, completely crazed, Harvey talking about there not being enough justice and whatnot.

Bruce knows he should be scared. At the very least alarmed. But he just feels tired. Because

Why do these kind of things happen to him?

He probably should’ve thought about that before self-coronating himself as the city’s savior.

It sure takes a lot of patience to be a savior.

As Harvey keeps monologuing, Bruce wonders how Jesus did it.

| x |

So, the Joker had been mad. Furious. When Batman had ignored him. Because he thought they had something going on.

They did have something going on. And, after their last meeting in the asylum, when Bats had oh so prettily shown him his design. When he’d put his hand against the glass. The Joker thought Batman _knew_ they had something going on.

The fact that he seems to not be aware… kinda makes the Joker tick.

A lot.

And so, the Joker kinda broke Harvey. To get Batman’s attention! Don’t look at him like that, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

Harvey’s daddy issues made it entirely too easy.

And the Joker had thought that the worst Harvey would do would be, I don’t know, blow up a few buildings? Kill a couple of people? Maybe kill himself?

But no.

You know what Harvey did?

He touched his Batman.

Self control be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg y'all it's been a while. Sorry for the absence. I had finals and shit. But here I am. And with winter break and with no social life, AO3 will be my sanctuary for the next couple of weeks.
> 
> God bless this site, like, imagine what I would be without it. Productive? That's boring.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone that's been commenting. Ya'll inspire me to write (u know, ya'll, and my desire to get to the porn part of this. But tomato tomato)
> 
> Oh, and the Shrek reference. If none of ya'll noticed it Ima be disappointed in u.


	8. Part 8

_I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars_

Bruce has had his fair share of girlfriends, if you could even call them that. They were more of an annoying necessity to keep up appearances than anything else. Sure, Bruce likes a good fuck from time to time, but everything that comes with that is just —an annoyance.

Most of them were models, plastic chicks with a good pair of tits and a whole bunch of air in their heads. And when Bruce tries to think back to them, their faces just blur together, in a smudge of identical idiocy and irrelevancy. He can’t remember one of their faces clearly.

Having said that, he doesn’t know why those words keep coming to mind now.

_I like the night_

It’s annoying.

A rat squeaks as it passes by, and Harvey’s attention is momentarily taken away from looking inside the duffel bag in favor of looking at the rodent. His hands are shaking, Bruce notices. And the warehouse smells putrid.

How long has he been here?

Perhaps two hours.

Maybe four.

Bruce knows he should be trying to untie his hands. Harvey’s distracted, and the blood does serve as good moisturizer. He could slip his hands out of the ropes easily…

But Bruce doesn’t.

Instead he just looks as Harvey searches through a duffel bag. Harvey’s still wearing a hospital gown, and the pliers he was using earlier lay bloodied on the floor. Next to Bruces nails.

_I like the night_

It occurs to Bruce, that his mind’s sort of detached. That he should be alarmed, or trying to escape. Or at least he should be paying attention to the overwhelming pain in his hands and feet.

But he just wants to see where this goes.

_Without the night…_

Harvey makes a humming noise, it seems he’s found what he was looking for. From the bag he takes out a scalpel. And Bruce gives himself a second to wonder on how he got kidnapped by someone who can’t even hold a scalpel steadily.

Oh, right. He was thinking about tiaras.

“I couldn’t get my hands on a nightstick at the hospital. But this will have to do,” Harvey closes the bag before approaching Bruce, who is tied to a chair. His hands are restrained behind his back, and his feet are tied together. Bruce shifts his hands experimentally, the blood soaked skin easily moves against the rope.

But not yet.

_The night and stars_

That’s so annoying.

Maybe he just wants to see.

“I see you looking. Don’t,” Harvey states, he lifts the hand he’s holding the scalpel with and points at Bruce with it. He’s still shaking. And Bruce realizes he’s been looking at Harvey’s burned face. He can see his teeth through it.

“It had to be done, just like your nails.” Harvey nods to himself. “It had to be done.”

When Bruce had woken up and realized he had been taken to an abandoned warehouse, Harvey had welcomed him with an entire monologue about the injustice of justice or some bullshit. Bruce hadn’t caught half of it. After that, Harvey had shut up. And he’d proceeded to slowly rip off Bruce’s nails one by one. Quietly. Only Bruce’s screams resonated in the space.

_I like the…_

_dark_

Annoying.

“Why?”

The question is followed by an echo.

Why?Why WhyWhy whywhy

Bruce’s voice is hoarse. And his throat feels raw. But he can see Harvey’s surprised expression at seeing him talk. Harvey seems satisfied.

Why.

“Because you weren’t there. And you have to see”

Harvey starts walking again, stoping when he’s in front of Bruce. He kneels then, placing the hand with the blade of Bruce’s knee.

_I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars_

Bruce realizes why the thought is so annoying.

Harvey looks up at him, and he smiles. “You think you saved me, don’t you?” He starts tapping Bruce’s knee with the blade.

Tap

Tap

Tap

Tap

There’s no rhythm.

“You think you found me. But you don’t get it. You didn’t. Because you can’t see what happened in between. I prayed so hard for you to come. For a hero to appear. Every day. For god to appear. But he didn’t. You didn’t. No one did.”

Harvey reveals his other hand, he’s holding a coin.

“If it lands on heads, I’ll slash your face. Or at least what’s exposed of it,” he looks at Bruce, and tears are falling from his eyes. “Do you see now?”

_Without the dark, we’d never see the stars_

That girl, Bruce realizes, has never been in the dark before.

Can you see them?

The stars.

“I do,” Bruce answers.

“Good, good,” Harvey says. The coin flips in the air, landing on Harvey’s waiting palm.

“Heads”

There was never a choice.

Harvey smiles.

Bruce’s hands slid out of the rope.

The blade is coming ridiculously close to Bruce’s face.

And that’s when the doors to the warehouse slam open.

“Ah, Harvey? I recommend you to take your hands off my property”

Stars.

Harvey stays in place, one hand on Bruce’s knee and the other still frozen mid air. He stares, perplexed, at the figure coming through the doors. As does Bruce.

The Joker’s there. A kitchen knife in hand. A sick smile on his face.

He looks enraged.

His smile drops immediately as his eyes snap to the hand in Bruce’s knee.

“Did I stutter, Harvey-boy?”

Harvey stands up, and he’s saying something. But Bruce doesn’t catch much of it. He’s looking at the Joker. His whole attention is on the man.

Stars.

There was never a choice.

Bruce hadn’t received a gift in so long.

Bruce had never felt so

_Alive_

In so long.

Why did it take him so long to understand.

The answer was right there.

The answer was _him_.

But it’s too late now. Harvey is running to the Joker, scalpel at hand, and the Joker is running towards him.

Tap

Tap

They stumble to the floor, each man fighting for dominance. Two blades dancing in between them.

Tap

Tap

If Bruce was anyone else, he would remember that his hands are untied. That he can bend down and untie his feet. But Bruce is Bruce. And when a knife cuts the Joker deep in the gut, Bruce realizes that he’s still a child.

He’s back in that alley.

He still can’t move

Tap

tap

He can’t move.

And white pearls rain.

And Bruce falls,

Bruce falls again.

And this time, he can’t get up.

Because his dad was wrong.

We don’t fall so we can get up. We fall so we can enlarge his kingdom.

And Bruce would rather die

Than not be able to move again.

And Bruce would rather die

Than see the Joker die himself.

Because this time

Bruce doesn’t think he’ll make it out

Sane.

Not again.

Tap

Tap

And that’s his answer.

“A little help here, big guy”

The strained voice brings Bruce back. And that voice. As soon as Bruce hears it, he can move. He unties his feet, ignoring the acute pain in his toes and fingers. Ignoring the blood and everything else. He’s by the Joker’s side in less than a second, pushing Harvey’s lifeless body off of him. Somewhere along the line, the kitchen knife ended up incrusted in his neck.

And the Joker’s covered in blood.

The man in question smiles up at Bruce, but it’s faint, wobbly at the edges. “I swear Bats. If you ignore me after this.”

But Bruce can’t look at anything but the blood in the Joker’s abdomen. Just pouring out

And out

And out

“Oh, don’t look like that Batsy. I saved ya,” that expression is still on his face. That nauseatingly _vulnerable_ expression is still on his face. Like he’s perfectly happy. Like there are stars. Like the Joker has lived his entire life in the dark and would do so for eternity if it only meant he could see Bruce.

Bruce would rather die.

“I didn’t need saving,” Bruce says, stubbornly. Angrily.

The Joker’s eyes become softer. And he seems so sad.

“But we all do”

That’s it. That’s all it takes for Bruce to go down and rest their foreheads together. He closes his eyes. Why. Why did it take him so long. He breaths in, their air mingling together, and whispers, like a prayer.

“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris”

_It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery_

He feels the Joker try to huff out a laugh beneath him, the life sipping out of him. “But you know a secret Bats?” He says softly, his voice so faint Bruce can barely hear it. “It wouldn't be misery if you were there with me.”

And then the Joker closes his eyes. And doesn’t open them.

Because, sometimes, people just fall.


	9. First Skip

“Dick, where’s dad?”

The teen looks up from where he’s laying on his stomach on his bed. The hand holding the pencil stills on the page, and he gives his sister his most unamused expression. Which is his everyday expression, if you ask her.

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” he deadpans, before going back to his drawing. The girl on the threshold groans, dramatically throwing her head forward and making her blonde hair go haywire in the process.

“Richard,” she corrects, like the name is being ripped out of her very being, “where’s dad?”

Her brother gives her a satisfied hum. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

That, in fact, is not the answer she’s looking for.

“And I don’t wanna tell him about Standford, but I guess sometimes you just don’t get what you want”

“Basement”

She smiles, all teeth and fake innocence. “Thank you, dicky-boy”

She’s out before the pillow Richard throws at her can hit her face. Ah, Richard and his sensitivities. If all goes well today, it’s safe to say today is a good day.

If all goes well.

The mansion is quiet as she goes through the halls, her steps purposeful and light. Finally, finally she won their little game. How they thought she wouldn’t get to them she has no idea. She’s the _queen_ of games, but pops has a big ass ego, so he might’ve forgotten.

She’ll remind him.

She looks around when she gets to the room. She’s not afraid, she’s only taking precautions. Waynes never fear, they only take precautions. Slowly, she turns the doorknob to the piano room.

“What are you doing here, little miss?”

If she jumped, is no one’s business but her own.

“Alfy!” She shouts-whispers, a hand on her chest and an accusatory glance at the man. “Do you wanna kill me?”

The older man simply sits on the bench, like he didn’t almost give her a heart attack. He weaves his fingers together. He’s sitting in front of the piano.

“They didn’t,” she gapes, not believing her eyes. They wouldn’t stoop so low as to…

“Alfy, they made you the last obstacle! That’s so not fair!”

“Contrary to your beliefs, little miss, this is not a game. They simply knew you would try to…interrupt, and asked me to take guard”

“Like a dog, Alfy. They made you take guard like a dog”

That takes the man by surprise, and his eyes widen a fraction before he schools his expression.

“I am no dog, miss Harley”

Ha, got him.

“Then move out of the way”

They stare each other down, unblinkingly, for at least thirty seconds. Then Alfred sighs, and stands up.

“I still mean it when I say that they do not see it as a game,” he says, still opening up the way for her. She fist bumps the air with a _yes! _before trying to calm down and going over to Alfred.

“Maybe dad doesn’t,” she tells him, both of them wearing matching smiles.

“He does not,” the tug at his lip doesn’t waver.

They stay like that for a moment before Harley clears her throat and presses three piano keys.

The bookcase promptly opens, and she can’t help but smile again.

“Finally,” she whispers.

Behind her, Alfred hums. “I expect to see you at supper”

“Won’t make any promises”

Then she’s gone.

The trip down is nothing new. She’s been on this elevator more times than she can count. Okay, maybe like eight times. But this time is different. This time is _her_ time.

Or at least she hopes it is.

She takes a deep breath before getting off the elevator. She’s so excited she’s almost bouncing off the walls, but she needs to show them— that she has control. So she breaths in and out, and once her fingertips aren’t shaking with excitement, she steps off. She sees her dad’s suit, but walks past it. She only has eyes for one thing right now:

The playroom.

Finally. Finally she’ll be able to _play _in the playroom. That’s been her heart’s only desire since it was built a few years ago. Ricky already got permission. Hell, dad wants him to join them in there from time to time. And Ricky does, but not as much as _she_ would. She would never leave their side if it meant she got to play in the playroom.

But they don’t let her. Dad doesn’t let her.

Today’s the day.

She walks past the monitors, the suit prototypes, and the bat mobile. She walks straight towards that red wood door. She doesn’t knock, instead she just stands in front of it, then she puts her ear against the wood. But she can’t hear anything.

Maybe Richard lied to her, the little shit. She’s so gonna snitch on him.

But Alfred was guarding the entrance, so that can’t be.

Slowly, she pushes the door open.

And there they are.

Papa has his arms around Dad’s waist, his chin propped on his elbow. And Dad leans into him as they admire the masterpiece in front of them.

“Geez, you’re such a romantic,” Papa whispers into Dad’s ear, chuckling fondly. The other tries to shrug him off his shoulder, but Papa doesn’t budge.

“Forgive me if I wanted to do something special for Valentines day,” is Dad’s retort. They have their backs to the door, so Harley can’t see Dad’s face, but she imagines he’s pouting.

They’re always so fucking sappy.

“Calm your tits Bats. Just didn’t take you for the romantic type. You’re kinda always physical”

“Can’t someone be romantic _and_ physical?”

“That is the question”

“Should we find out?” Dad asks, lowly. Harley can see he’s grinning when he cranes his neck so he can kiss Papa. And Harley is about to flee the scene because no, she won’t be scarred for life, playing in the playroom can wait, when Papa says.

“Uhm, we will. When Harley isn’t here to witness it,” he goes up on his toes so he can place a kiss on Dad’s forehead. Then he looks back to where Harley’s standing on the threshold.

“You’re kinda late, darling,” he tells her, but a proud smile is on his lips.

So it was a game.

Of course it was, it always is with Papa.

She smiles back.

And then the words sink in.

_Late_

Harley groans, knocking her head on the door. “I thought I won this time.”

Dad turns around, and sighs a defeated sigh. Like he couldn’t be bothered with this.

“Who told you where we were?” he asks, crossing his arms. He looks mad, Dad always makes a show out of his refusal to let her hunt. Or play. But this time Harley can see excitement in his eyes, he wants her to be ready.

Oh, she’s so close to her first hunt. She can just feel it. She tries to keep a cool face when she answers, but by the knowing smile Papa’s wearing, she fails miserably.

“Ricky, but it wouldn’t be that hard to guess. You’re always in the playroom”

Her dad shakes his head. “Not in months. We could’ve been in the warehouse, or the bunker, or Jack’s place.”

“You could have,” she nods. And she knows she’s smiling. Dad’s acknowledging her (partial) success.

“How did you get him to tell you?”

“Blackmail,” she says easily.

“With what?”

She smiles. “That’s for me to know.”

Now Papa’s laughing, he goes over to Dad and places a kiss on the side of his neck. Can’t they keep their hands to themselves for one second?

“And Jeeves?” Papa asks, voice muffled by dad’s neck. “How did you get past him? You’re a softie when it involves him, so I’m surprised”

Harley frowns at that, of course it was Papa’s idea. He always played dirty. 

“Called him a lap dog for you two, he had to move out of the way”

Papa’s eyes widen, and he looks at dad before saying. “I think she’s ready Brucey"

Dad nods, all business-like. He takes Papa’s hand and kisses the back of it with a _see you tonight mon amour._

Papa winks at him.

Harley rolls her eyes.

Then Dad’s ruffling her hair, telling her “don’t have _too_ much fun. I worked hard on it.”

And Harley could care less, because now she gets to _play. _But she still smiles at him and kisses his cheek, because she loves her dad.

And it might make her feel better about ruining his masterpiece.

Then Dad’s out. And it is only her, Papa, and her new toy in the room.

“So what now, Mista J?” She says, smiling.

She eyes the oh so beautiful room. Everything a child could ever want.

Heaven.

Knifes decorate the walls, some curved, some straight, some long, some short. But those are only for show (all Papa’s idea, of course). The good ones, the really good ones are in the cabinets. Together with the pliers, and the scissors, the needles and the pins, and the hammers, and the tongue tearer. The tongue tearer. Oh, she was aching to use that one, daddy got it from some guy in China last month.

And then there was

Her toy.

Dad’s creation laid bare in the wide metal table. Wires hanged from the ceiling, lifting up the flaps of flayed skin off the man’s back, exposing the ribs and spine beneath. No, not a man— her toy. Her toy was in a kneeling position, as though he was praying. And the skin hanging from the ceiling resembled wings

Like an angel.

Dad is truly an artist.

Her toy’s eyes are stitched closed, as is his mouth. But the rest of his body is intact. All of his organs just waiting for Harley’s first _play_.

God, the only thing that could make this better is if the man was actually alive.

_Baby steps Harley_, she tells herself. _All in due time_.

Her attention is brought back to earth when her Papa smiles. His iconic scars stretching so wide it almost seems unnatural.

How she loves her Papa.

“Now, my little hellequin. Now we have fun”

She couldn’t have asked for a better family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I'm sorry for momentarily killing him in the last chapter. But he doesn't actually die, as this chapter shows, he survives to somehow have his very own murder family (god do I love murder family. This was incredibly fun to write). I'll go back the original timeline in the next chapter, but I'll skip to the future from time to time. More things will become clearer as it goes.
> 
> Oh, and Harley's fifteen, Richard's eighteen.


End file.
